Dead Reckoning
by mossley
Summary: The trouble with the past is that it tends to come back to haunt you. Angst enough for everyone, plus some SaraBrass friendship and a nice bit of GS just for the heck of it. Chapter 3 of 3
1. Dead Lacking animation or interest

** Dead Reckoning****  
Summary:** The trouble with the past is that it tends to come back to haunt you. Angst enough for everyone, plus some Sara/Brass friendship and a nice bit of G/S just for the heck of it.**  
A/N: **First, a big thanks to the overwhelming response to _Pax Vobiscum_. It inspired me to try writing something else. Next, another big round of thanks to my friends who encouraged me to write this. Potential spoilers through the current episode. 

**Rating: **PG-13 for language  
**Disclaimer: **Will write for a 'clever' disclaimer.

**

* * *

Chapter 1**

**_Dead:_** Lacking animation or interest.

Sara settled into the soft leather of the sofa, shifting her weight to find a comfortable position. She knew the seating arrangement wasn't the cause of her unease, but the physical activity distracted her from the reason for her visit. And from whom she had come to see. Noticing the blue eyes observing her sharply, she stopped her fidgeting and took the proffered cup of tea. She smiled, but it never reached her eyes.

"How are you doing, Sara?"

She let out a humorless chortle and shook her head self-deprecatingly. "I came to see _you_. To talk. That should tell you something."

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

Sara snorted derisively, but it only earned her a pointed look. She let out a sigh and settled back in the cushions. Her response had been cutting, but years of practice let her companion hide any pain. After a long sip of tea, she set the cup down and stared out a window. It was a poor delaying tactic, and she knew it, but it gave her time to collect her thoughts. With an obvious effort, she turned back around and offered a half-shrug in apology.

"Sorry. It's not your fault. This is … awkward. I never thought I'd come here to talk about this," she said quietly. "God, never something like this."

"But you came on your own. I would say that's promising."

"No offense, but you have no idea what the hell you are talking about. This isn't 'promising'. This is me trying not to become a mental wreck. Or more of one."

"I doubt if it's that bad. You recognized this was a difficult time. You knew you needed to talk to someone about it. You aren't ignoring the situation. That's a good sign in my book."

"Yeah. If you say so. It's a different perspective from this end. Uh, don't take this the wrong way, but I never wanted to see you again."

The therapist smiled sympathetically as she took a seat opposite of Sara. "I can understand that," the older woman said gently. "And I understand this is difficult. But you know the dangers of repressing. It's best to deal with this. We don't have to cover everything at once. Tell me what stands out the most."

Sara nodded and curled her knees close to her body. She rested her arms on top of her legs, resting her chin in her hands. "Blood. It was everywhere. The smell hung in the air. Metallic. Blood smells metallic. I can never get used to that smell, and I deal with it all the time," she rattled on, pausing to give her head a small shake. "Sorry. I'm rambling."

The therapist smiled reassuringly. Reaching to the end table, she discreetly moved a box of tissues in front of Sara. "You have no need to apologize. Smell is a powerful memory trigger. Take your time."

"Thanks," Sara said softly, her voice quivering with pent-up emotions. Closing her eyes, she felt the tears running down her cheeks, and she gulped a deep breath. "I was standing alone, off to the side of him. He was lying there, dead, and it was all my fault."

* * *

_Earlier …_

"What are you trying to prove?"

Sara set a ruled marker on the ground next to a shoeprint, ignoring her colleague. The question was rhetorical and not even directed at her. She was rapidly learning to filter out Sofia's constant chatter at crime scenes, but that last comment piqued her curiosity. After snapping a bracketed set of photos, she turned to the blonde.

"Getting frustrated already?" Sara asked.

Sofia broke off her rambling to stare at her companion. After a beat, she burst into a wide smile. "That's right. You don't know. There were five other incidents like this while you were out. And just how did you manage three days off in a row?"

"I traded days with Greg. He wanted to go to a concert."

"Uh, huh. This scenario is the same as the others. Shots fired into a rundown building. It's always during the night or early morning. Nothing stolen, no one injured," Sofia continued, rapidly scanning the area. "All the shootings are in an isolated area, but near a pay phone, where a male called nine-one-one to report a break-in."

"And there's a pay phone," Sara noted.

The two headed to a nearby liquor store where a bank of battered phones hung from the side wall. They ran their flashlights over them quickly. Those farthest from the streetlight had been vandalized, exposed wires immediately ruling them out as being used by their caller. Once Sara snapped the photos, Sofia started printing the closest one with a resigned air.

"There won't be any fingerprints. The caller always wiped it down when he was done. The shoeprints belong to a pair of Nikes, size eleven-and-a-half. We'll find shell casings from a nine-millimeter Glock. They'll probably be just inside the building."

"Anything on the casings?"

"Bobby couldn't find any matches in our database. No prints on them, either. Nothing special about the ammo."

"What about the buildings' owners?"

"Different people own each one. They have different insurance companies. Even the building types are different. This is a tenement. The first two were warehouses. One was an old theater. There are no obvious connections between them."

Sara squatted down, shaking her head. The ground was littered with debris – cigarette butts, beer caps, lottery tickets, candy wrappers. If the caller – and probable shooter – left anything behind, it wasn't obvious. Letting out a sigh, she began the arduous task of sifting through it, looking for anything that might be recent.

"Diversion?" Sara posited.

"Grissom thought about that. No major crimes went down at the same time."

"Weird."

"These are pointless crimes. They don't accomplish anything. Why is he doing this?"

With mutual shrugs, the pair resumed their work. Sara methodically bagged and labeled potential evidence, proceeding with a detached disinterest. From her point-of-view, virtually all crimes were pointless. There was no justification for them. She understood that drugs and alcohol were involved in a lot of cases, but she also knew some people just liked to cause trouble. As far as she could tell, this case was no different, and she saw no reason to expend any extra effort trying to discern the motives involved.

Putting away the last of her evidence, Sara straightened slowly, turning to observe the people milling behind the tape. She rapidly snapped a series of crowd shots, but the few people that came out to watch scurried back into the darkness after the initial flash. A sigh escaped her lips as she tried another shot, dreaming of a hot shower. The area was filthy, with mounds of garbage piled around all the surrounding buildings. An odor of urine filled the dank air.

"What am I doing here? Even the lowlifes stayed away. Hell of a life I have," she muttered to herself.

As she made her way back toward the building, Sara paused suddenly. The wind whipped her hair wildly as she took a deep breath. An odd emotion had been playing on the edge of her consciousness for some time, teasing her with its vagueness. It was so elusive she never knew when it first appeared. But over the months, it had grown in intensity. Now, stuck in a rundown neighborhood on a cold night, a realization hit her.

She was bored.

Sara cocked her head in thought. Maybe unsatisfied was a better word. She put her hours in every day, all the while trying not to dwell on the particular horrors seen. Then she went home, alone, where she tried to forget what she'd been unable to ignore. An empty bed waited for her and her nightmares. Occasionally, there'd be an experiment that sparked her imagination – or a case that fired her temper – but for the most part, the job was no longer enough. Work had ceased to be a source of wonder or fulfillment. And for a person who had built her entire life around her career, that was a disturbing development.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she replied automatically, blinking and nodding at Sofia. A shiver ran down her spine, but Sara doubted it was due to the night's chill. Her answer wasn't the truth, and it was time she addressed that problem.

Lost in her own thoughts, she didn't notice the figure standing in the shadows behind the yellow crime scene tape. Angry brown eyes tracked her every motion until she disappeared into the building.

* * *

Once back at the lab, Sara deposited the scant evidence they'd collected at the scene. Grabbing her lunch, she read over the case reports from the previous shootings while she ate. Her mind wandered on occasion, forcing her to reread sections. The distraction irritated her. It didn't matter if she was unhappy; she was a professional. There would be time after work to consider her life. 

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

The string of gratitude directed her way shattered Sara's musings, and a grin formed automatically. One thing was unquestionable – she had some good friends. "Enjoy your concert?"

"Totally rocked! It was the best! So are you," Greg gushed.

"Don't you forget it."

"Like I could! You won't let me," he teased back. Greg waited until she looked up to playfully waggle his eyebrows, and he mock-sneaked a thermos from under his lab coat. "Kona Gold. Primo stuff. Want some?"

"Hell, yeah. Beats that crap they brew here."

After pouring their coffee, Greg hid the thermos and retrieved his own lunch. He angled his head as he walked to the other side of the table, scanning the reports in Sara's hands. "Someone assault another old building?"

"Yeah."

"Definitely a weird case."

"Tell me about it," Sara said. "Nothing was stolen, no one was hurt, and the property damage was minimal. Analysis of the call center tapes showed the same man called in all of the shootings. Same gun was used at all locations."

"So what type of person just fires shots into a building and then phones it in? It sounds like the guy wants to get caught. Maybe he wants publicity. Is it a personal form of graffiti? Marking his territory? Architectural critic? Deranged termite?"

"Take up profiling disgruntled bugs with Grissom," she answered with a grin.

"Grissom. Yeah," Greg said, clearing his throat softly. He ducked his head down low over the table, motioning with his hands for Sara to do the same. After she put the files down, he cleared his throat again. "Have you talked to Hodges lately?"

Sara raised an eyebrow questioningly. "No. Why?"

"He's been telling a story to everyone since yesterday. Well, not really a story. More like a rumor. Or a fairy tale. I don't know how reliable it is. He heard it from one of the techs on swing shift. They're a bunch of dweebs."

"Greg, there's something to be said for getting to the point."

"According to Hodges, Grissom and Sofia went out to dinner. Like _dinner_ dinner."

Sara stared silently for a minute. Thoughts came sluggishly, but they were still difficult to comprehend. It wasn't until she saw Greg's concern that she forced a shrug. "Really?" she asked calmly, bringing up the coffee cup to cover her expression.

"Yeah. I … well, Hodges is making it out to be this hot and heavy thing. And Grissom? Hot and heavy? No way. Not with Sofia, that is," he amended too quickly. Greg sighed when he noted a flash of something in Sara's eyes. "I, uh, it's Hodges saying all this stuff. You know him. There is something wrong with that guy. It's all innocent."

Sara didn't answer immediately, but when she did it was without any rancor. She smiled honestly. "It probably was. Grissom has dinner with Brass and Catherine pretty often. He had dinner with Doc and his wife last week. I don't think even Hodges could make something out of that."

"Oh, I don't know," Greg quipped. "Doc is pretty with it for an old guy. Don't rule him out as a player. Trust me. The man knows all the good strip clubs."

Sara choked on her coffee. Greg handed her a napkin, which she quickly grabbed and brought to her lips. She stared at her colleague with an open look of disbelief. The idea of the avuncular coroner slipping bills into G-strings was unsettling. Greg confirmed what he had said with a firm headshake.

"Okay, first off, Greg, 'good' and 'strip clubs' don't belong in the same sentence. Forget what Cath says. And Doc? He's … he's … he's like Santa Claus with a crutch. What the hell would he be doing in a strip club? And don't supply details," she added as a warning.

"Hey, don't you go knocking the Santa man. He's the ultimate party dude! Why do you think he's so jolly all the time? Don't forget about that magic corn he feeds his reindeer. And he's got that big bag of toys! There are toys for adults. You know, this is sounding a lot like a movie I saw once."

"You scare me sometimes, Greg."

"Impress, Sara. Impress. Try to keep it straight. I impress you," he chided.

"Only in your dreams. And no details of those, either! You're a Santa pervert."

Sara stood up and cleared the remnants of her meal. On the way back, she gave Greg a light-hearted slap to the back of his head. His mock-glare garnered a look of feigned innocence until they both started chuckling. Gathering up the pages from the case file, she gave them a last going over before putting them away. She didn't bother examining the crowd shots from the previous incidents. The crime was odd, but it was hardly a priority.

She spent the rest of the morning working her other cases. Once the shift ended, Sara put away the evidence she'd been examining. It was unusual for her to leave immediately, but she wanted to go home. It had been difficult to keep her mind focused on her work, and her couch was a more comfortable spot for her ruminations.

After gathering her belongings from the locker room, she headed out. Laughter greeted her, almost mocking her mood. Sara's steps slowed as she passed Grissom's office, but she didn't need to look inside to know it was Sofia that had triggered his vocal response. Squaring her shoulders, she picked up her pace, unaware that Grissom followed her progress with his eyes.

Once outside, Sara slipped her sunglasses on automatically and crossed the parking lot quickly. Her once sluggish thoughts were now assaulting her with their rapidly changing directions. She didn't even pause when someone bumped into her in the parking lot, but just offered an apology over her shoulder.

"Yo, bitch!"

She froze in mid-step, her posture tightening at the insult. Numerous colorful rebukes ran through her mind. A tired sigh came out instead. She wasn't in the mood for a confrontation. Besides, he wasn't more than a kid.

"Yeah, whatever. Excuse you, too. Watch where you're going next time," Sara called out sarcastically, climbing into her vehicle. She pulled away, unaware of the furious look that followed her. Or that he was scribbling down something on a scrap of paper.

* * *

After a hot shower and a cold beer, Sara settled at her desk. She finished the last page of her journal, having reread the entire thing looking for any clues it might provide. Signs of her growing dissatisfaction were scattered through the pages, but it provided no hint of its origins. Her old e-mail was the next evidence she examined. The frequency had dropped over the years, but she'd kept in touch with her old friends in San Francisco. Again, it was hard to pinpoint when her enthusiasm started to wane.Why do you think this is a problem now? 

The counselor had asked the question partway through her mandatory sessions. Sara never reached an answer that she found satisfactory. Numerous factors were involved. The stress of the job and the promotion troubles, dealing with cases that constantly reminded her of her past, not having an outlet to help her unwind. Combine those with the fact that the situation had been brewing for a long time and it was a disaster waiting to happen.

"What about Grissom?" she pondered out loud.

Sara never considered he was to blame for her problems, and she never would. But she had to admit her feelings for him contributed to the situation. Her independent streak was a key component of her makeup. She grew up having to look out for herself, and for the better part of her life, she believed that she didn't need anyone else. There was an occasional lover, but she felt fine without someone in her life.

But then she realized she'd never been in love before.

Her initial reaction to Grissom had been attraction. It existed on multiple levels. Physically, he was a pleasure to observe. Professionally, he was a star in the field. Intellectually, he challenged her like no one else could. Personally, they hit it off immediately, both recognizing a kindred geek.

When the call came that he needed her help, Sara never gave it a second thought. She quickly told her boss she was taking some of her accrued leave, and was on the first flight to Las Vegas. Grissom's invitation to join the team permanently was barely out of his mouth before she accepted. In hindsight, it was probably a mistake, but how was she to know she'd fall in love with him?

The emotion was odd. It enthralled her in ways that she never imagined possible, and at the same time it scared her. She'd never felt this way before. She'd never wanted someone to need her as much as she needed him. Given her background, Sara had been hesitant to act, taking three years to make a move.

Grissom's rejection had been hard to accept. More than anything, she felt embarrassed that she'd fallen for someone who didn't care. But she was used to being alone. It was nothing, or so she told herself. Then Sara learned that Grissom did love her, but that he felt she wasn't worth the risk. That had shattered her self-confidence. It had been one thing to not be wanted, but to rank lower than a job was too hard to take.

"Yeah, that probably didn't help things," she said, going to the kitchen to grab another beer. She grinned wryly at the symbolism of the act, raising the bottle in a mock-toast. "To you, Grissom. This isn't your fault. I made my own messes."

Her thoughts went back to Greg's conversation. Grissom's dinner with Sofia was probably professional, or at most just friendly. Sara detected no spark of a romantic interest between them, but she recognized her own jealousy. It had nothing to do with any future the blonde presented, but Sara's own lost present. It was because Sofia was able to interact with Grissom in a way she would never be able to.

She would never have dinner with Grissom, either on a professional or a friendly level. It had nothing to do with worries about the age difference, or that he was her supervisor, or any of his other concerns. There was too much tension between them to ever share a simple meal. They could work together, but the easy-going friendship they once had was gone, and it would never be back. Too much had happened – or hadn't happened.

"You can never go back again. Damn, it wouldn't have been so bad if we had at least gone forward. Even a little bit. Better to have tried and failed, than this. All I wanted was a chance to love you."

And personally? Was there any chance of a future for them? Sara let out sigh. That ship had sunk even before it had a chance to leave the dry dock. It had taken a lab explosion to get a 'honey' out of him. Endangering her life and revealing her painful past had each earned a handhold. Little progress had followed any of those events. What would it take to get him to actually open up?

"That's one thing I don't want to find out," Sara declared. She snapped her head up quickly, and a sad chuckle followed. "Great. Now I'm talking to myself. I am so losing it."

Setting her beer down, she went back to her laptop. There was no future for her in Vegas, and things would never truly be comfortable there. It was time to move on. Quick inquiries went out to her friends in San Francisco before she began surfing the Internet. With a course of action decided upon, Sara began to sing along softly with the song on the radio.

* * *

That evening, Sara went to Grissom's office nervously. She wasn't in a mood to discuss her situation, and she offered silent thanks that he wasn't there. After setting the paper on his desk, she went to wait in the break room. He was already there, sipping a cup of coffee as he read over the shift's assignments. They were working an attempted break-in together, but she made no comment about the envelope on his desk.

At the scene, they walked through the crowd outside the house. Detective Vartan waved them over, holding up the crime scene tape as she approached. "Lovely crowd," he said dryly when an obscene gesture was directed their way.

She started to respond, but stopped short. Turning around, Sara fixed the troublemaker with a questioning look. He was a young, black man, around twenty, with a scar running across his face. There was something familiar about him, but it wasn't until he spoke that she recognized him. It was the same man that bumped into her that morning in the parking lot.

"You gotta problem, bitch?"

"Watch your mouth," Grissom snapped defensively, moving back to stand by Sara's side.

"It's a free country. That's what they say. If I wants to call the ho a bitch, I will. Ain't that right, bitch?"

Vartan marched up to him, pressing his finger into the younger man's chest. "Well, I say this is my crime scene. I'm in charge here. And I'm saying you're disrupting it. I can have your scrawny ass hauled to jail if I want. Ain't that right, punk?"

"Chills, dude. Don't go give yourself a heart attack. Dumb cops always making a big deal outta nothin'. We just talking," he said, holding up his arms. Backing up, he lifted both middle fingers at Sara before dropping his hands.

"Sara!"

"I'm fine, Grissom. I'm not going to go chase after him. That's Sofia. Let go of me."

"Who was he?" Vartan asked.

"I don't know," Sara admitted. She watched in the direction he had disappeared, her face a mask of concentration. "I think I worked a case with him. I'm not sure. The scar … I don't remember anyone with a scar like that."

"Your first time?"

"For what?" she asked, turning her attention to the detective.

"A creep coming back to bother you. Goes with the territory," Vartan continued. "You'll get punks that you put away trying to cause trouble later."

"So why didn't you arrest him?" Grissom asked angrily.

"For what?" Sara asked, fighting back her temper. She started to step forward, but realized Grissom still had a hold on her arm. A lone eyebrow rose pointedly as she gave him a cool look. It didn't stop until he finally released her. "He called me a name. That's not exactly a criminal offense. Besides, you should see some of the things I've been called in letters I get from inmates," she added with a chuckle.

"Well, considering some of the ones _I_ get, I can only imagine what they say to you. You're a lot prettier," Vartan said with his own laugh and wink.

"Can we get to work, now?" Grissom asked shortly, marching towards the home without waiting for his colleagues to catch up to him.

* * *

"Sara! Come in here."

Hearing her name, she stopped in the hallway. The surprise in Grissom's voice was impossible to miss, and she winced at the upcoming conversation. Planting a smile on her lips, she leaned against the doorframe. "What's up?" she said innocently.

"What's this?" Grissom held the paper in one hand, and his glasses in the other. "Come in and sit down. Close the door."

She complied with his directions. As she took a seat, Sara wondered how hard he was going to make this. "It's what it says it is. That's all."

"What's wrong?"

"Who said anything is wrong?"

Grissom sank into his chair. His head tilted to the side, and he stared at her silently for a long moment. Putting his glasses back on, he picked up the paper from his desk. Sara resisted the urge to laugh when he read it over again. "Isn't this short notice?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that, but I need some time off next week. It's not a problem, is it?"

"No. I'll work something out," he said distractedly. Grissom set it down, almost reluctantly. His gaze bore into her questioningly. "You don't take vacations. Not under normal circumstances."

"And you keep telling me I should."

Grissom leaned back in his chair. His frown deepened, and he began tapping his fingers on his desktop. "Sara … Is something wrong? Is this about what happened at the scene tonight?"

"Relax. I'm fine. I left that on your desk when I first got here. That kid doesn't bother me."

"Nothing's wrong? There's nothing … you want to talk about? I could … listen, if you have something on your mind."

"No," she said, directing a soft smile in his direction. Grissom's concern was touching, even if it was obvious it had been uncomfortable for him to make the offer. There was no way she'd tell him she needed the time off to pursue a lead on a new job. Once she had finalized her plans, she'd give him her notice. "Everything is good."

"Okay," Grissom said slowly, his eyes betraying that he didn't completely believe her.

"See you tonight," Sara replied, giving him a wave before walking out of his office. Once in the hallway, she let out a huff and her shoulders dropped. If a vacation request got that type of reaction, how was he going to react when she told him she was leaving?

A nagging voice in the back of her mind insisted she should tell him her plans now. On the drive home, she considered the options. In the end, Sara decided to hold off on saying anything to him. There was no saying how long her job search would take, or if she would even be successful. She worked at the best lab in the country, but she had that suspension on her record. Telling him before she knew she'd be leaving would only create additional tension.

Reaching her apartment, Sara walked to her building slowly. Last night, the decision to move on seemed obvious. It was the right thing to do. It was the healthy thing to do. But Grissom had let his guard down at the scene. He did care, albeit not enough to act on it openly. Leaving would hurt him, but it wasn't like they were happy now.

As she approached the step leading from the sidewalk to her building, Sara froze. The scarred-face youth from her earlier encounters was there, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He lounged against the brick façade, his legs stretched out, effectively blocking the entrance. She slid her sunglasses up to the top of her head, refusing to be intimidated by him. He snickered lightly, occasionally directing another obscene gesture at her.

"What's the matter? Ain't you gonna invite me in?"

"Do I know you?" Sara asked harshly. His reaction caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise. A spark of rage flashed in his eyes, and he climbed to his feet angrily. For some reason, he expected her to know who he was.

Voices came from inside the building, and the youth turned around hesitantly, swearing loudly. He flicked the still smoldering cigarette towards Sara's face, but she easily dodged it. His failure only fueled his barely controlled fury.

"You will, bitch. You'll know me real good," he said darkly.

Sara stayed in place, watching as he walked away. As he reached the road, he turned back around and stopped. Placing two fingers to his lips, he kissed them, and pointed in her direction. Once his fingers were extended, he raised his thumb. The sweat started running down Sara's back when he pantomimed shooting her repeatedly.

_TBC_


	2. Reckoning – An act of retribution, reven...

** Dead Reckoning****  
Summary:** The trouble with the past is that it tends to come back to haunt you. Angst enough for everyone, plus some Sara/Brass friendship and a nice bit of G/S just for the heck of it.**  
A/N: **First, a big thanks to the overwhelming response to _Pax Vobiscum_. It inspired me to try writing something else. Next, another big round of thanks to my friends who encouraged me to write this. Potential spoilers through the current episode.**  
Rating: **PG-13 for language**  
Disclaimer: **Will write for a 'clever' disclaimer.

**

* * *

Chapter 2**

**_Reckoning –_** An act of retribution, revenge

Brass rounded the corner in time to see Sara storm into the lab, and he stopped short. Her manner made it clear she was following a lead, even if she hadn't been carrying a plastic evidence bag. He waited until she approached to smile and call out a greeting. When that elicited a growl in response, he did a comical double take and turned with his hands out questioningly.

"Was it something I said?"

She didn't stop, but strode purposely to the DNA lab. Hearing her faint cursing, he started to chuckle, wondering who had managed to get on her bad side. Grissom was in a meeting, so it wasn't his fault. Brass moved to stand next to her in the doorway, and he let out a whistle. Technicians had the equipment dismantled and were struggling to get a replacement part into the innards of the machine.

"We'll be done in about an hour, but there's going to be a backup," one of the lab techs told her, pointing to the bagged cigarette she carried. "Is that a priority?"

"No," she said grudgingly. Spinning around, Sara marched to the vault, where she quickly logged her evidence. Brass trailed behind quietly as she headed for her workstation. She was booting up her computer and staring impatiently at the screen when he strolled in after her.

"What's up?" the detective asked lightly.

"I'm looking for someone."

"Who?"

"If I knew who he was, I wouldn't be looking."

Brass rested his hip against the desk and folded his arms across his chest. His earlier amusement faded when he observed her closely. He'd never seen her like this. Sara was beyond annoyed. Something was really bothering her.

"Tell me what's going on," he demanded, although with an underlying kindness.

She didn't answer immediately, intent on pulling up records. When he called her name, she tossed her pen down. Leaning back in her chair, Sara pushed her hair away from her face. "I have a fan," she huffed out.

"I prefer air conditioning myself."

Sara swung her head around to give him a humorless stare. "Someone is following me. And no, I'm not paranoid," she added with a smirk when Brass raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Yesterday morning when I left work, someone bumped into me in the parking lot. Literally. Last night, the same guy was at a crime scene. Had some 'nice' things to say to me, too. I get home this morning, and he was waiting outside my apartment building for me."

"Describe him," Brass directed, pulling out a notebook from his inner jacket pocket. Seeing Sara's look, he brushed some imaginary lint from his badge. "I know this is a great fashion accessory, but that's not why I wear it. I'm a detective. Finding things out? That's supposed to be our job."

Sara let out a sigh and spun around in her chair to face him. "Male. African-American. Twenty years old, tops. About six-foot-one. Lean build, but he's not wimpy. Short hair. He has a distinctive scar. It starts high on the right cheek, crosses under the nose, and goes down his left cheek," she said, running her finger across her face in demonstration.

"Observant much?" Brass quipped.

"It's what they pay me for. Creep was wearing a pair of dark jeans, probably fairly new. There was no noticeable fading. Off-brand. Red t-shirt. Navy jacket with a pack of cigarettes in the chest pocket. He was wearing sneakers."

"You don't know the brand? I'm disappointed."

"I couldn't tell," Sara shot back, winking at the detective. She recognized he was trying to get her to relax and appreciated the effort. "His jeans were too long. They almost dragged the ground."

"This is all from memory? You sure you don't have a picture over there?" Brass joked, playfully looking over her shoulder.

"Dammit!" Sara swore irritably, slapping a hand on the table. "I can't believe how dumb I am! I had my digital camera in my purse the whole time. Should have snapped some pictures of him."

"No! Look, you leave this guy alone. I'm serious, Sara. He's probably just a punk, but I don't want you taking any chances. Ignore him. Don't confront him. Whatever you do, don't get in his face."

"You mean I can't shoot him?"

"You gotta work on the sarcasm, doll. That was barely dripping."

"I'm not stupid. Really. I know this guy is trying to get a reaction out of me. I'm not going to go after him. I'm not going to provoke anything."

"Good. 'Cause you'd only make things worse."

"Jim … I don't _want_ to run into him again. He freaks me out," Sara admitted reluctantly. "People like that? You never know how they're going react. I don't know how to react around them. I just want to know who he is."

"And you think you'll find something in the records," Brass stated. DNA from the cigarette was only good if they had something to compare it to. An irate suspect or recently released convict would be the logical places to start looking.

"There's something familiar about the creep, but I can't place him," she said, her face a mask of concentration. "I should know this guy. I _know_ it. But I don't remember anyone with a scar like that."

"It's okay. No one can remember every case."

Sara shook her head. "He was angry that I didn't know who he was."

"Did he make any direct threats?" Brass asked worriedly.

"It was more the way he said things than what he said. And he, uh, left with an interesting gesture," Sara said, recreating the motion of shooting a gun.

"Shit! You could have mentioned that earlier."

"Why? Seriously, Jim. What can you do? The kid hasn't done anything that you can arrest him for. That cigarette I collected probably shouldn't even be tested. Technically, it's not even evidence."

"Yeah, at this point, the DA would laugh it out of court. Okay. I'm going to have a patrol car swing by your neighborhood. If he's still around, I want the punk to know we're watching him. You head on home. I'll have my guys check the records. See who's been released recently."

"Thanks," Sara said, turning off her computer and grabbing her purse.

"No problem," Brass said.

Sara flashed him a grateful smile as she headed out. Her eyes darted to the side when he started walking beside her through the hallway. She stopped and gave him a pointed look as he turned with her towards the exit. "Playing chaperone?"

"Yep. Hey, I'm in law enforcement. It's what I do."

"So what am I? Chopped liver?" she groused when he grabbed her elbow and started walking again.

"No, you're not. And I want to keep it that way. Next time I go to the deli, I don't want to end up with Sidlewurst," he said seriously. Brass waited until he was sure his meaning was clear before giving her a grin. "Besides, do you know how long it's been since I got to take a pretty, young thing home?"

Sara rolled her eyes, but she gave him a good-natured smile of her own. "No, but do you know how long it's been since a nice guy took me home?"

"Well, I don't know if he was the last guy, but I know _someone_ took you home. And why," Brass said meaningfully.

Sara stared straight ahead, but the embarrassment was written on her face. "You know about that?"

"Detective, remember? It's our job to find things out." He turned to give her an emotional stare. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Me, too."

Once in the relative privacy of the parking lot, Sara slid her sunglasses on. "I'm not a drunk," she said softly. "I had a problem. I didn't handle it well, but that's over. Trust me. I don't think there's anything that could make me start to … self-medicate again."

"Good," Brass said. He smiled affectionately at her as she opened her vehicle. "I want to make sure you're with us for a long time."

Sara returned the smile guiltily before driving home to check on her job inquiries.

* * *

On the way to her apartment complex, Sara noticed both a patrol and an unmarked police car driving slowly through her neighborhood. Brass trailed behind her. She thought he was overreacting; dealing with punks was one of the unpleasant side effects of the job. Most of the time, nothing came of it. Still, she was relieved to find no sign of her mystery man when she walked into her building. 

Setting her things down, she stripped on the way to the shower. The feel of the hot water on her muscles gradually eased away the earlier stresses, and she let out a contented sigh. After drying off, she reconsidered her day's agenda. The encounter with the kid had disrupted her schedule. Yawning deeply, Sara decided her bed was the most appealing of the options.

After a few hours restless sleep, she gave up and got dressed. Dreams of someone chasing her through dark hallways had plagued Sara. Worse, she couldn't tell if she had been eluding her stalker or running away from Grissom. Her earlier anger was being supplemented with irritation at herself. She was leaving; it was for the best. If all went well, she'd be out of Vegas by the end of the month.

Her heart started to beat harder as she reached the building's entrance. She paused for a moment, using the time to take a calming breath. Reaching the parking lot, Sara scanned the area carefully, but the scarred-face man was nowhere to be seen. She rolled her eyes at her own reactions, upset that she'd let him get to her. Humming along with the radio, she didn't notice the car that pulled out of a parking lot down the street and followed her to the grocery store.

The strong smell of stale cigarette smoke mingling with an unwashed body was her first clue that something was amiss. The store was nearly deserted. Dropping some lemons into her basket, Sara surreptitiously looked behind her. He stood staring at her, just on the edge of her personal space.

She ignored him, moving to the next produce bin. The stranger remained quiet, but he never let her move more than a short distance away from him. Sara closed her eyes, fighting down her bile when she felt his foul breath on her skin. Thoughts of slamming her elbow into him tempted her, but she knew Brass had been right.

Sara didn't say a word, but bit her lip as he trailed her through the produce section. He was making her angry. She focused on her temper; she had better control over that. Fear was another matter, and she tried to ignore her rising unease. Taunts were easily ignored. The physical aspect was disconcerting.

She moved through the aisles quickly, and the youth stayed on top of her. Her normal routine was to shop on the off-hours. The quiet was normally settling, but tonight it highlighted how isolated she was. When she passed the deli and the meat counters, he finally called out to her.

"That's right. You don't need any meat. I got all the meat you need. Ain't that right, bitch?"

Sara turned around, her anger threatening to run over when he grabbed his crotch lewdly. Logically, she knew he was trying to provoke her, but her patience was wearing thin. Before she reacted, a flurry of activity surrounded her.

"You! Get out of here before I call the cops. I don't allow any punks in my store. Go on! Get out of here. You're trespassing. Go home and listen to that rip-rap hopping music of yours!"

"I'll see you later. Some place where we can be alone," the youth said to Sara, flipping off the store manager on his way out.

"Oh, I'm so impressed. And don't let me ever see you in here again. Stupid punks," the manager muttered before turning around. "I'm so sorry about that, miss. Would you like me to call the police?"

"It's okay," Sara said slowly, resisting the urge to laugh. He was a tiny, balding man with a high-pitched, squeaky voice. The sight of him driving away her would-be tormentor with his arms flapping had been amusing, even if the situation wasn't. She thanked the manager, reassuring him that everything was fine. But she nervously grabbed the last of her groceries, her eyes rapidly darting around as she did so.

"I'll take those."

She snapped her head up when the grocery bags were snatched from her arms. Sara spun around and took a step back. A very tall, very muscular man in a store vest was serenely watching her. "Mr. Murphy told me to carry your bags for you."

"That's all right," she insisted, letting out a relieved breath. "That creep? It's not the store's fault. You don't have to worry about it."

He kept the bags and grinned broadly. "Mr. Murphy wants me to scare that punk away."

Sara shook her head, but followed the titan as he headed out. The store's lights created pools of illuminated areas, but there were plenty of places to hide. Her escort chatted in a friendly way, but she could see he was surveying their surroundings. She was doing the same herself. The scarred-face troublemaker wasn't in sight, but as she drove away, Sara paid more attention to the traffic behind her.

Instead of going home, she drove straight to the lab. No cars followed her into the lot, but she didn't move out of her vehicle. She waited several minutes, looking to see if any cars parked in nearby locations, or if someone walked into the area. When there was no indication that she'd been followed, Sara swore. She grabbed the steering wheel painfully while resting her head on it.

Over the years, she'd been called every name in the book and had received letters that would make a sailor blush. She'd had a shotgun waved in her face, been around explosives, blood-borne pathogens and dangerous makeshift drug labs. Why was this man bothering her so much?

She left her groceries in the car, knowing there was nothing that would perish in the cool night air. Sara tried to relax, and her mildly shaking hands irked her. She went into the locker room and changed out of her sweat-drenched shirt. Grabbing a cup of tea, she settled into a chair in the break room. Mentally, she tried to visualize what the youth would look like without the scar, but the reconstructed face still eluded her recognition.

When Grissom entered the break room, she debated whether she should tell him about the latest development, but he seemed lost in his own thoughts. She forced a friendly greeting that was barely acknowledged. A feeling of sadness washed over her as he headed back to his office without noticing she was upset. She really did love him. Leaving would be painful. A small voice was telling her she was running away from her problems, but Sara doubted that. She'd tried, making the first move. She'd waited, hoping he'd come around. What else was left?

* * *

Sara had taken her assignment slip professionally, even giving Grissom another friendly smile. Despite all that happened, she was glad to be working her case alone; she wasn't in the mood to explain why she was short-tempered that night. As she drove off, she saw the youth sitting on a bench across the street. He waved at her, but he made no move to follow her. She processed her scene quickly, but thoroughly, before heading back to the lab. Her thoughts kept drifting to Brass and whether he'd made any progress. 

It was near the end of shift before she caught up to him. To her surprise, Detective Vega was with Brass. Unfortunately, they were heading towards Grissom's office. He was her supervisor, but Sara didn't look forward to involving him. If Brass had overreacted, Grissom would go postal.

She knew it was his way of showing he cared, but it irritated her as much as it touched her. The only time he showed any concern was when she was having troubles. Once the problem was resolved, he'd retreat again. When he thought she was fine, Grissom had no interest in her.

"Hey, Brass," she called out, but not before realizing Grissom was in his office. Sara nodded her head towards the conference room in a last-ditch effort to keep him out of the discussion, but the detectives didn't budge. Glancing through the door, she noticed Grissom wasn't paying attention to them.

"The gang's all here. So to speak," the detective said with a wry expression. His demeanor hardened as he held out a picture. "Is this your stalker, Sara?"

With that, Grissom's head jerked up so quickly she was convinced he'd hurt himself. She took the photo from Brass, nodding immediately. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grissom moving around his desk. "Yeah. Oh, yeah. This is him. Who is he?"

"That's the guy from our scene last night," Grissom noted, snatching the picture from Sara's hands. "Did he bother you again?"

"You don't know about this?" Vega asked.

"What's he talking about?" Grissom demanded, turning to Sara quickly.

Brass raised his eyebrows and gave Sara a knowing look. His lips twitched at her gruff expression, but he knew better than to laugh. "Why don't we take this inside your office?" he suggested, gently pushing the two CSIs out of the hallway.

Vega followed, closing the door behind him. He remained there, letting Brass and Sara take the two seats in front of the desk. Grissom sat on the edge of the desk facing her. Again, he asked her what was going on.

Sara recounted her earlier encounters. She tensed even more when she noticed Grissom's reaction. This wasn't going to be pretty. With a shoulder roll, she added what happened on her way to work. Her initial description was short on details, but all three men grilled her for more information.

"Why didn't you say something earlier? It was dangerous to go out to a scene by yourself," Grissom groused, tossing the photo to his desk. "He could have followed you there. You should have more sense than that."

She closed her eyes and counted to ten, but she was unable to completely control her temper. Too much had happened already that day. The creep had followed her, insulted her and threatened her. She didn't need Grissom's implications that it was her fault.

"I tried to talk to you at the start of shift, but you wouldn't listen," she snapped. Seeing his startled expression, Sara took a breath. That hadn't been completely true. She softened her voice and changed tactics. "You were distracted. And I wasn't alone. There were cops at my scene. Brass sent cars around my neighborhood. What else could we do?"

"Arrest him! He's stalking you," Grissom stated angrily, deeply hurt by her accusation. Sara's attempt to defuse the situation didn't calm him any. "He's threatened you."

"Prove it," Sara demanded, crossing her arms and giving him a sharp look. His anger only fueled her own. She'd been forced to repress her emotions at the store, but now they were seeking release.

Grissom blinked and leaned back at her harsh challenge. He noticed both detectives shifting uncomfortably. Things had gotten out of control, and he wasn't sure how to restore order. He opted for logic. "You have that cigarette that he threw at you."

"You want to charge him with being a litterbug? Ecklie would love to see the bill for DNA tests on that case," she said acerbically.

"The store manager heard him."

"Being crude. Do you really think he'd be charged with indecency? In Las Vegas? Get real."

"Well excuse me for caring that some punk is threatening one of my CSIs," Grissom said sarcastically. His hand reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. That had been the wrong thing to say. Thoughts of that foul-mouthed stranger threatening Sara upset him, but he wasn't handling things well. He didn't have time to filter his anger, and it was creeping into his speech.

Sara started to reply hotly, but Brass rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezing softly. Instead she tossed her hands up. Her voice was more controlled, but still conveyed her irritation. "It's my word against his. The DA isn't going to waste time on a case like this. Period. We get jerks hassling us all the time. It's part of the job."

"True," he said. "They say things. But they don't follow us around."

"What about that drunk old dancer that keeps coming on to you? Why haven't you had her arrested?"

"It's not the same, and you know it," Grissom said coolly.

"The only difference is I'm the one being bothered."

"That's not entirely true," Vega interrupted. He ignored the glares both CSIs directed at him. "Do you remember Tony Thorpe?"

Sara had swung around to stare at the detective, but she slowly settled back into the chair. While her head nodded to the side, she swallowed reflexively. Her arms gripped the armrest tightly as a trickle of cold sweat ran down her back. "That bastard," she whispered hoarsely.

"Who's Thorpe?" Grissom asked irately.

"You, Sara and Nick handled the case with me," Brass said. "Four years ago, the Adler case."

Grissom shook his head, but it was Sara who continued. Her voice was low, but heavy with emotion. "Thorpe carjacked Pamela Adler from a mall parking garage. He raped her and then he shot her repeatedly in the head. Left her for dead on the side of a highway like a bag of trash. Since she never died, he wasn't charged with murder."

"And he was fourteen at the time, so he only got four years in juvenile detention. He was released ten days ago," Vega said.

Grissom moved behind his desk slowly. A facial tic developed, and he was unable to control it. His concern for Sara made him snap earlier, and it was clear he had made her angry. Failing to recognize a crime that had affected her deeply hadn't helped. As he took his seat, he watched her, but her gaze was focused in the distance.

"He's a Snakeback," Grissom recalled, turning to Vega.

"More or less."

"What do you mean more or less? Once you are in the gang, you're in for life. The only way out is when you die," he said.

"True, but Thorpe is on the ropes. When he got to juvie, there was only one other Snakeback in there with him. Curtis Brown was really popular in the gang. He's a cousin of Reggie Brown, one of the lieutenants. A fight broke out, and Curtis died," Vega explained.

"Is that how Thorpe got the scar?" Sara asked, her gaze still fixed on some distant object.

"In a sense. There was no indication he took any part in the fight. The other Snakebacks decided he was a coward. The scar happened a year later. Payback. It's supposed to look like a snake. A reminder of who he belongs to."

"Thorpe is in a bad situation. If he doesn't prove himself to the gang soon, they'll cut him loose. And in his case, that means fatally," Brass said.

"Grissom, have you seen this kid around your place? Has he been to any of your scenes where Sara wasn't present?" Vega asked.

"No."

"He hasn't been hanging around me, either," Brass said. "I'll give Nick a call later. He needs to be on the lookout."

"So I'm the lucky one," Sara stated sarcastically.

"The gangs don't usually target law enforcement. It's an invitation for a major crackdown. Thorpe isn't the brightest, but he has to know that. So why is he bothering you?" Brass asked rhetorically.

"He's trying to scare me," Sara said, turning to the detective. She gave herself a shake and sat up straighter. "That's all. Look, he hasn't done anything that could get him arrested. He's playing games. If he wanted to hurt me, he knows where I live. He could have ambushed me."

"That's true," Grissom allowed reluctantly, "but I don't want to take any chances. You're not going to any scenes alone. I don't want you to leave the building by yourself."

"And wear your vest when you go to and from your car," Vega added.

"I'll have a patrol car go through your neighborhood before you leave for work or get home. I can have a deputy out in the parking lot, too. We …"

"Whoa! Hold on," Sara said, standing up and pacing the room. "No. Don't give him the satisfaction."

"We're trying to keep you safe," Grissom said, making sure to keep his voice level.

"I am safe. I told you – he could have gotten me if that's what he wanted. All this attention? It's what he wants. Ignore him."

"Sara …"

"No, Grissom. I know he's dangerous. Trust me, I know what he can do," she said, her eyes watering at the memory of Pamela Adler. A shudder ran through her body and she began pacing the small office again. "We can play it safe without making a big deal out of it. Besides, I'm going out of town next week. If I'm not around, he'll get bored."

Brass shrugged and stood up. "You're probably right. I think I'll bring him in for a little chat, though. Lay down the law. If he knows we're watching him, he may lose interest. So, where are you going?"

Sara stopped her pacing in mid-step. "Out of town," she said evasively.

"I know that. Vacation?"

"Something like that."

"What? It's top secret?"

She forced a casual smile. So much for being discreet about her plans. "I'm going out to the coast. Seeing some friends in San Francisco, then going to visit another one in Portland," Sara said. It was true, but she didn't mention the reasons for the visits. As she headed out of the office, she noticed Grissom watching her, his head tilted quizzically.

Once shift was over, she found Greg and Sofia waiting by the locker room. Grissom joined them shortly. "Stay here," he directed her, signaling Greg to go. The younger man nodded, and Sara could tell he was a bit nervous. She raised an eyebrow at Grissom, but he remained silent until his cell phone rang. After a short conversation, he gave her a pointed look. "Thorpe is sitting on the hood of your car, smoking a cigarette. I'll have a deputy …"

"Don't," Sara sighed. "I was serious, Grissom. I don't want him to think he's rattling me. It'll only encourage him. He's not going to do anything in our parking lot."

"She's right," Sofia said. "I'll walk out with her. We'll chat, make it look casual. Thorpe won't try anything with witnesses. Let's go."

Sara marched out, absentmindedly talking with Sofia. She appreciated Grissom's concern, but she noticed he accepted Sofia's comments without question. It hurt that he didn't question the blonde, even though she had used the same logic. Mentally, she berated herself for snapping at him. It put Grissom on the defensive, and started the escalating argument. Still, Sara thought she reason to be in a foul mood.

Looking up, she kept eye contact with Thorpe, and he slid off her car. Walking around it, he paused to mock-hump the door handle before leaving with another obscene gesture. She thanked her companion and drove off, her attention focused on the young rapist as he leaned against a street signpost. She never saw Grissom observing the entire exchange with a concern expression.

* * *

When the knock came at her door that evening, Sara set her glass down carefully. She approached slowly, carefully looking through the pinhole. With a sigh, she removed the safety chain and waved Grissom in. 

"I'm finishing up dinner. Can I get you something?"

"No, thanks," he replied.

Sara finished her pasta, watching as Grissom tried to sit nonchalantly on her couch. She cleaned the dishes, straightened the kitchen, and poured another glass of tea. Moving back into the living room, she finally rolled her eyes.

"Why are you here?" she asked softly.

"I was in the neighborhood," Grissom said with a forced lightness. "I thought I'd give you a ride to work."

"Ugh," she muttered sinking into her chair. "I appreciate the gesture. I do. But I don't want you driving me to work. I don't need it."

"It'll make me feel better."

Sara found herself staring at him in disbelief. Grissom was obviously uncomfortable, and she knew her blowup that morning contributed to the tension. The only reason he was there was because of Thorpe. But he was trying to be friendly. Finishing her drink, she grabbed her things and followed him to the parking lot. On the ride to the lab, Grissom alternated from scanning pedestrians to darting his eyes to her. He didn't talk, but a play of expressions crossed his face.

"What?" she finally asked.

"You never did say why you needed time off."

"It's … personal," she answered.

"I … see," he said with equal reserve. He waited a beat before adding, "You took three days off last week."

"Not really. Greg wanted time to go to a concert, so we traded days off. It's not a big secret."

"Unlike where you're going. You're private, but you're not evasive – normally. You've been leaving work on time. That's also unusual for you. Then there's the fact you're taking a vacation, and on such short notice. You aren't telling me everything."

"Grissom, I'm not some psychotic killer you can profile," she huffed out, surprised that he had noticed.

"I wish you were."

Sara blinked slowly, wondering if she had heard correctly. Slowly, she turned to stare at him. "I'm going to try to ignore that you said that."

Grissom bobbed his head briefly in her direction. "If you were a psychotic killer, I'd understand you. At least I'd have an idea what you're thinking."

"I'm harder to understand that some psychopath? Gee, Grissom. Watch it with the compliments. Someone might think you care."

His eyes scrunched as his fingers drummed the dash. "I think I just proved my point. I never know what to say."

"When have you ever tried?" Sara muttered, shifting on the seat. "It's not that hard. I'm not complex. I want respect. Don't jerk me around. I value honesty. Well, maybe that is hard for you."

Grissom's eyes darted to her in surprise. After he lost his temper in his office, he'd suspected she was upset with him. Obviously, he had underestimated the extent of her anger. The tip of his tongue peeked between his lips as he drove. Something was wrong. He was certain of it, even if the couldn't isolate what it was. And he was equally sure that it went beyond her troubles with Thorpe.

"Yes, it is hard for me," he admitted grudgingly.

"Don't worry about, Grissom. It's not a problem," she said with finality, staring at the side window. _Or not for much longer._

_

* * *

_

They found Thorpe waiting on the sidewalk in front of the crime lab. He made no moves, but just stood there staring darkly into the car as they drove by. True to his word, Grissom made Sara work in the lab that night. In the morning, there was no sign of Thorpe as he took her home. Her relief was short-lived; neighbors were milling around the hallways, angry about the word "bitch" that was spray-painted outside her apartment.

She went to bed pissed.

The next night, Brass met Sara to act as an escort. The detective had been unable to locate an address on Thorpe, and the rapist had managed to avoid the parking lots when deputies were around. Going out to her car, they found someone had let the air out of all of the tires. He waited with her for AAA to arrive, and then insisted that she ride to work in his car.

Sara felt exposed in the open night air.

At the lab, Sara tried to get an assignment. Another break-in had been reported, and it matched their earlier case. More importantly, she didn't want to hide. She wanted to face her fear rather than let it fester and multiply. Grissom refused, despite her angry protests. When the first obscene phone call came, she hung up quickly, but soon Judy had to start screening her messages. Attempts to trace the calls led to pay phones spread around a six-block area.

People began to whisper as she walked by, and Sara could feel her control slipping.

Greg drove her home that morning, stopping to treat her to breakfast at the diner. They joked, but Sara never relaxed. Thorpe arrived shortly after they did. He sat at the counter, sipping a soda and glaring at her. She called Brass, but by the time he got there, the youth had left.

Her mood had escalated to discomfort.

Once at her complex, Greg insisted on walking her up, and both of them gagged at the smell of human urine coming from her door. He attempted to call Grissom while Sara angrily tried to wash the offensive stain away, but she stopped him. He insisted on staying as she prepared for her court appearance, and Greg walked Sara to her car. She barely acknowledged the wave from the deputy making a round through the parking lot.

Her hands were shaking as she gripped the steering wheel.

Sara was sitting on the witness stand when she spotted him. Thorpe sat in a back row with his folded hands in front of his face. The index fingers pointed up, and he began to drop his hands forward repeatedly. The gesture looked like a nervous action, if she hadn't seen his earlier gun pantomime. She tried to concentrate on her testimony, but her eyes kept darting to the rapist, finally alerting the DA that something was wrong. He asked for a recess, but Thorpe slipped out of the courtroom while they were conversing.

After her testimony was over, Sara stormed out of the courthouse as quickly as she could without making a scene. Standing on the sidewalk, she spun around looking in all directions, but he had gone. She was breathing heavily, her emotions roiling violently.

Her earlier confidence that Thorpe was only trying to scare her was waning. And she had to admit his terror campaign was working. He'd eluded the police, meeting her or leaving "tokens" for days, despite the department trying to find him. It wasn't a priority case, but she knew the cops were looking.

Swearing, she stalked off to the parking garage, her steps slowing as she entered the darkened structure. It was a perfect trap. Sounds echoed confusingly off the concrete, and she jumped nervously when a car backfired. She didn't have her gun; she couldn't take it into the courthouse. Sara slapped a wall angrily, letting the pain override her fear. She paused in front of the entrance to the elevator, her eyes swinging between it and the door to the stairwell.

Images of a brain-dead Pamela Adler crept into her mind.

"Damn son-of-a-bitch," she called out, finally deciding it was safest to walk up the ramps to the fourth level where she'd parked. The exercise helped to burn off her anger, but the fear lingered. Approaching her car cautiously, she visually inspected the spaces between the cars.

Sara was still scanning the area when she grabbed her door handle. With a disgusted cry, she jerked back. Holding her hand out, she dropped to her knees and gagged violently when she saw the semen dripping from her fingers.

"Oh, God," she whispered, shakily standing up when she realized the precarious position she was in. The semen was fresh; Thorpe had to be nearby. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she tried to retrieve a tissue from her purse with her clean hand. She staggered around to the passenger side, hesitantly opening that door. Once inside, she locked the doors and fumbled with the glove box, grateful to find a box of wipes.

The drive home was quick, but Sara had to concentrate on the road. She was on the verge of losing control, and she screamed angrily at cars that cut her off. Reaching her apartment, she didn't even bother to look for Thorpe; she was too angry to avoid a confrontation. She slowed as she went down the hallway; a piece of paper was sticking out from under her door.

Sara snatched the paper and checked the hallway as she opened the door. Going inside, she unfolded the sheet and felt her stomach drop. It was a disturbingly violent hand-drawn pornographic image. It was crudely sketched, but it was clear that the brutalized victim being raped was intended to be her.

Crumbling the paper, Sara leaned against the door, and slid slowly to the floor. Closing her eyes, she pounded the floor until her hand was raw. Sobs of fear and frustration escaped from her lips despite her attempts to stifle them.

* * *

After a scalding hot shower, Sara called dispatch to locate Brass. Learning he was in an interrogation, she drove to the police station, again climbing in from the passenger side. Her rage was barely controlled. She wasn't going to let Thorpe get away with his threats. He'd crossed the line and he'd left physical evidence this time. 

She was rapidly walking through the station when a hand touched her shoulder. She twirled around, and Grissom stepped back instinctively. He let go and lifted his hands calmly.

"Sorry."

"Dammit, Grissom! What are you trying to do?"

He frowned, troubled by the raw emotion in her voice. He'd seen her angry, but never like this. Her breath was coming in short pants. Sara's hair was still damp, and she hadn't bothered to put on any makeup. Most disturbing was the wild look in her eyes as she jerked her head from side to side.

"I said I was sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Are you okay?" he asked slowly and softly.

"I'm fine. Where's Brass? He better arrest Thorpe before I kill the damn bastard," she answered angrily.

Grissom huffed out a breath, cocking his head to the side as he considered what to tell her. She was visibly on edge, rubbing one hand gingerly over the other. After a minute, he took her elbow and led her to the one-way mirror. Thorpe lounged in a chair with Brass grilling him.

"The DA called Brass after the encounter in the courtroom. Judge Blackwell wasn't amused," Grissom understated. "She had the bailiffs on the lookout for him. One spotted him exiting the parking garage, and got the license plate number off of his car. Patrol picked him up a few blocks away. If you want a restraining order, she's ready to sign off on it."

She gave a nod of understanding and headed for the door. Her movements were so rapid that Grissom barely stopped her from entering the interrogation room. Even when he moved in front of her, Sara tried to shove him aside. The fury was uncharacteristic and it frightened him.

"Don't do it, Sara," Grissom said firmly. "Don't. It's over. Brass spelled it out to him. Thorpe went too far this time. If he does anything else, he's facing prison. He's scared. He's not going to bother you again."

"So you want me to pretend this never happened?" Sara asked harshly.

"It's over. Don't dwell on it."

She stood there, panting heavily. Moisture gathered in her eyes as conflicting emotions raged. Thorpe was going to get away with his threats, but he wasn't going to bother her again. Sara ran her hand through her hair.

"Fine," she croaked out. "Fine. He can go on with his life. No punishment for what he did. I'm sure I'll stop looking for him around every corner eventually."

"Sara," Grissom called out as she walked quickly out of the building.

* * *

There was no sign of Thorpe when Sara left for work that evening. Still, she was on edge, walking through the parking lot cautiously. Her eyes tracked the traffic following her nervously. At every traffic stop, she observed the pedestrians closely. By the time she reached the lab, her hands were shaking. 

Grissom let her go to a scene with Greg that night. As she worked it, she thought there were more deputies present than were warranted for a bar fight, but she didn't say anything. She left work on her own, but an inordinate number of officers were taking cigarette breaks at the time.

Again, there was no sign of Thorpe, and Sara drove to the lab the next night feeling slightly more relaxed. Grissom assigned her to work with him as they investigated another break-in. The thief had hit several times, and he was growing bolder. They processed the scene, and she only felt slightly vexed that Grissom wouldn't let her be in a room alone. There was still no sign of her stalker when they returned.

On the third night, Sara was able to exit the car in the lab parking lot without her legs shaking. She was examining evidence when her pager went off. She went to Grissom's office, closing the door when he motioned. He was smiling, but she felt herself tense. She recognized his posture before one of his 'talks'. Sara waited as he went through a preliminary questioning about paperwork that needed to be done before she left for vacation.

"How are you doing?" Grissom eventually asked.

"I'm fine," she answered levelly.

"Good. I have the paperwork for the ASCR conference in New York in May. I'm putting you down for it."

Sara dropped her eyes to the floor quickly. Going to the conference was a enormous opportunity. The lab only sent one CSI a year. Unfortunately, her plans were to be out of Vegas by then. The reservations were expensive and non-refundable. It wasn't fair to let him sign her up.

"You better let someone else go," Sara said.

"Why? It's a great conference. You'll have fun, and it'll fulfill your continuing education credit."

"Grissom, no. You really should let someone else go," she said pointedly. "Greg's never gone. He'd learn a lot there."

"Is there some reason you don't want to go?"

"It's not that," Sara evaded.

"Then why do you want me to send someone else?"

She let out a sigh and directed a half-shrug at him. "I don't think I'm going to be around that week."

"You can take vacation another week," he said in perplexity. "What's the big deal? I'll go ahead and fill out your paperwork."

"Grissom, don't do it," Sara said, her tone harsher than she intended. She licked her lips and lowered her voice. It couldn't be avoided any longer. "I won't be here that week because I'm planning on leaving."

"Leaving," he repeated. Grissom dropped the folder onto a table. His eyes darkened as realization dawned. "You're leaving. You're getting another job. That's why you wanted off next week."

"Yeah."

"You weren't even going to tell me!" he barked accusingly. "You were just going to slip off in the dark."

"That's not true," Sara replied, forcing herself to remain calm. This was already awkward; she didn't want it to become painful. The trouble was that her nerves were still frayed from her repeated run-ins with Thorpe. Grissom's accusations were hurtful and eroding her restraint. "I was going to give you my notice."

"Oh, how nice of you. I really appreciate that."

"Well, it wasn't like I was going to ask you for a recommendation," Sara said with a pointed stare.

Grissom pushed back in his chair and dropped his glasses to his desk. "Is this what this is all about? I can't believe it. You're still upset about that promotion."

"No, I'm not," she barked. "God, you're doing it again. You never learn. This isn't some quirk."

"Well, what's your problem this time?"

"Like you care!" Sara snapped, holding up her hands in mock-surrender. Her anger was barely under control when she stood up. "You know. It doesn't matter. This isn't about you. This isn't some stunt that I'm pulling to get your attention."

"Well, you certainly have it now."

"You know what? I don't want it."

Grissom stared at Sara as her words sank in. His anger started to fade, but the other emotions replacing it were more unsettling. He grimaced as he hissed out a aggravated sigh. Turning around, he picked up his glasses from his desk, and trained his eyes on them as he gathered his thoughts. When he finally looked up, he tried to keep his voice calm, but even he detected his petulant tone.

"What can I do to get you to stay? I don't want you to leave. Is it the pay? Do you want more responsibility?"

"I want out of Vegas, Grissom. I want to get on with my life. Coming here was a mistake," she admitted with a catch in her voice. "I need a better place."

"We're the best lab in the country."

"And there's more to life than work. Don't you get that? I didn't come here because of the damn job."

He shook his head in frustration. "Then what do you expect me to do?"

"Nothing. You finally got that drilled into my head. You're never going to offer me more. Work is too important to you. I know how you feel about that."

Grissom averted his eyes, frowning deeply at her allegation. The fact there was an element of truth to it made the sting worse. "How do you know what I feel? You never asked."

"You know, it doesn't matter what you feel. It doesn't matter what you want or think. The only thing I care about is how you act. And I never know when you're going to be decent to me or ignore me. I'm tired of it."

"And you said this wasn't because of me."

"Whatever," Sara sighed, standing up forcibly. "You're the reason I came to Vegas, and you're part of the reason I want to get the hell out of here. Happy now?"

Both jerked their heads to the door when it opened suddenly. Sofia walked in, asking a question about a case. She stopped in mid-sentence when she noticed the tension. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No," Sara stated. She walked to the door, and turned to give Grissom a sharp, parting look. Her voice was filled with a sad resignation. "We're finished."

* * *

Sara clinched her fists tightly as she headed back to her evidence. That had gone worse than she had ever imagined was possible. And when it came to her interactions with Grissom, she had a very active imagination. She tried to bury herself in work, but her mind kept drifting back to the fight, wondering how she could have prevented it. 

After an hour of examining crime scene reports, she tossed them down disgustedly. A shell casing had been found at the latest break in; the thief had fired a warning shot when a homeowner walked in on the robbery. Ballistics matched it to the gun used in the earlier shootings of the rundown buildings.

"I can't make any sense of this," she muttered. Deciding the fresh air would do her good, Sara gathered her kit and drove to the tenement where the last of the unexplained shootings had occurred. She and Sofia hadn't found anything at the time, but maybe things would fall into place if she re-examined it.

When she entered the building, the smell of stale cigarette smoke mixed with unwashed flesh assaulted her. A shudder ran through her body, and her pulse started racing. She jumped when a door slammed on an upper floor, her hand dropping to her hip. Her fingers fumbled with the leather strap covering her pistol's handle as she turned to look around.

"Oh, I've got to get a grip on myself. I'm losing it."

With an effort, she took a series of calming breaths, and reminded herself that plenty of people smoked. This building was rundown; it probably hadn't been cleaned in years. Of course it would smell like cigarettes.

Standing back up straight, Sara let out a sigh. Thorpe had given up his threats. She couldn't function if she kept thinking he was trailing her. He would win if that happened. She'd spend the rest of her life jumping at shadows, and she wasn't going to give him that.

It would be easier once she was out of Vegas, Sara told herself. The distance would help put Thorpe out of her mind. It was another reason to add to her list on why she should leave. After her confrontation with Grissom, she knew she couldn't stay. He was hurt, even if he tried to mask it with anger. That hadn't been her intention, but the results were what counted.

Sara gave her head a shake. In two days, she'd be in San Francisco again. After that, she was heading to visit a friend that had taken supervisory position in Portland. She'd never have to deal with Thorpe again. Pointing her flashlight in the direction of the rear hallway used by the shooter, she returned to work.

On an upper landing, the brief flash of a lighter highlighted a mask of rage.

* * *

Grissom moved through the hallway determinedly, his hands flexing as his frustration mounted. Where was Sara? He couldn't find her anywhere. About the only rooms he had left unchecked were the restrooms. Thoughts that she was already gone floated on the edge of his consciousness, taunting him cruelly. 

She was leaving.

The reality of the situation had finally sunk in, but the shock was still fresh. He'd sat in his office, too stunned to chase after her. Instead, he'd automatically answering Sofia's questions while he tried to comprehend the situation. Now, he knew he had to stop her. He couldn't let Sara leave, especially under the circumstances.

"Who are you looking for, boss?" Hodges inquired.

"Sara."

"She had her kit and was heading out about five minutes ago."

Grissom didn't thank him but retreated to his office. Sitting behind his desk, he rubbed his beard and considered what to do. Sara had been hurt when she left. He needed to rectify things; this wasn't something that could be ignored. The longer he waited, the worse it would become. They had to talk – calmly this time – but he also knew she'd need time to unwind. Maybe he could convince her to have breakfast with him.

With a sigh, Grissom went back to work. He hoped it would distract him from his nagging self-doubts, but he picked up the reports from the earlier shootings half-heartedly. Like Sara, he considered they could hold a clue to their current break-ins. Moving to the Layout Room, he arranged crime scene photos into neat grids, but nothing jumped at him.

Grissom thumbed through the crowd shots quickly, but his blood froze. Going back, he pulled out the previous photo and set it on the table. Grabbing his magnifying glass, he focused on a partial face in the back of the crowd. The shot wasn't the clearest, but a snakelike scar ran down the man's profile.

He reached for the stack of other crowd shots, knocking a folder to he floor in the process. Grissom's pulse skyrocketed when he found another picture of Thorpe at one of the other shootings. Had Thorpe been the shooter? Why? Sara investigated the last one. Thorpe started stalking her after that.

The shootings were a ruse to get her out in the open so he could find her. Sara had gone back to a scene. The only cases she was working were these shootings.

"No," he whispered, frantically searching the pictures from the other scenes.

"Grissom!"

"Not now, Greg!" he barked in reply, his hand reaching for his cell phone. Should he call Sara first or Brass?

"Grissom!"

"Some other time, Greg. I've got things to do," he yelled.

"This is important. It can't wait. I think it involved that creep that was bothering Sara," he said, his anxiety escalating when Grissom turned to him violently. "My robbery case? It's at a grocery store. It's the one by Sara's apartment. The one where she said Thorpe confronted her and the manager chased him out. He was attacked. I'm sure it was Thorpe."

Grissom snatched the photos from the younger CSI's hand. His knees shook as he stared at the first one. The wounds were bleeding heavily, but he could easily make out a fresh, angry scar undulating across the manager's face, running from one cheek to the other.

"Oh, God," Grissom whispered. This couldn't be a coincidence. The knife slash was a mirror image of the one on Thorpe's face. They thought he'd given up, but they'd been wrong. A cold dread settled over him and he looked at Greg with an ashen expression. "Sara's out there."

* * *

Sara stepped forward gingerly, keeping her light trained straight ahead. It took all her concentration to keep it from shaking as she moved the other foot. The sound came again. It wasn't her imagination. Someone had crept down the stairs to her left. Fresh cigarette smoke wafted through the air. She swallowed nervously and took another step; an answering one landed in the hallway behind her. 

She closed her eyes briefly as she mentally reviewed the layout of the building. This hallway ended in a boarded up doorway. Unless one of the side doors was unlocked, she was trapped. Her free hand slowly slid to her hip and wrapped around the icy-cold grip of her pistol.

Sara jumped as her cell phone started to ring and an evil laughed greeted her. There was no question someone was sneaking up behind her now.

She pulled the gun free and twirled at the same time. Instinctively, her training kicked in and she dropped into a crouch that was supposed to minimize target area. Her hands were shaky, making it hard to keep either the gun or her flashlight steady.

The light reflected off the barrel of another weapon, and Sara fought to keep her breathing steady.

"Las Vegas Crime Lab! Put down your weapon! Now! I'm not kidding. Put it down now."

"Shut up, bitch. I can hear the fear in your voice. You ain't gonna shoot me. You ain't gonna do nothing but scream."

Sara could see Thorpe was holding his arm in front of his eyes, squinting against her light. She stepped back as he came forward, but slipped on some debris on the floor. Landing on one knee painfully, she bit her lip to stop from crying out.

"I said stop!"

"Or what?"

"I'll shoot!"

"Hell, bitch, you can't even stand up. You think I'm scared of you? I'm a Snakeback! We ain't afraid of nobody," Thorpe said. He was waving his gun around, and Sara's eyes frantically tried to track its movements. She hissed a breath, and trained the light in his eyes. She focused on those.

"You're an idiot," she told him, trying to make her voice sound confident. "If you shoot me, the police will haul your ass to jail in a minute. They'll know who did it."

"Do you think I give a shit? You ruined my life. You're going to pay."

"I did what?" Sara sputtered incredulously.

"I been robbing houses on my own. It ain't my fault Curtis got himself killed, but I'm making up to the Browns. Now you got that judge riled up. Dumb cops are bothering the Snakebacks, and they blame me. I'm on the shit list again."

"What do you think will happen if you attack me? The Snakebacks will really get it, then. You'll be dead."

She realized Thorpe was still squinting, but he was aiming at her light; it was a beacon for him. She instantly jerked the flashlight away from her body, holding it off to the side. It only took a moment to adjust it so it was shining in his face again. Her arms were trembling. Images of Pamela Adler lying unresponsive on a bed merged with the violent rape drawing he left at her apartment.

"You damn bitch! I'm dead anyway. I'm gonna make you pay."

Thorpe was moving forward and she heard the gun fire. Her finger squeezed the trigger, and Sara closed her eyes.

_TBC_


	3. Dead Reckoning The process of figuring ...

**Dead Reckoning  
Summary: **The trouble with the past is that it tends to come back to haunt you. Angst enough for everyone, plus some Sara/Brass friendship and a nice bit of G/S just for the heck of it.  
**A/N:** Sorry for the delay in getting this last chapter out. Some weeks, it doesn't pay to get out of bed. Next, another big round of thanks to my friends who encouraged me to write this. Potential spoilers through the current episode.  
**Rating: **PG-13 for language  
**Disclaimer**: Will write for a 'clever' disclaimer.

* * *

**Chapter 3  
****_Dead Reckoning_ **– _The process of determining where you are based on where you've been._

Gradually, a warm stickiness registered in Sara's mind. She lifted her hand in front of her. Turning it around slowly, she splayed her fingers in surprise. Her head tilted to the side, quizzically examining the flesh. Dark, viscous liquid covered it. An acrid odor bore through the haze.

It was blood.

Moving in a dazed stupor, Sara bent her head down. Her arms and her clothes were stained with it. She could feel it on her skin. There was so much blood. Too much. People needed blood to survive. They died without it. A shiver started wracking her body, and her breath caught in her throat.

The sharp retort of static went off behind her, and she jerked when the officer started talking. She didn't turn around, didn't respond to any of the people around her. Sitting on the gurney, Sara stared vacantly into the night. Lights from the ambulance and the police vehicles created a nightmarish staccato of images, each burning itself into her conscience.

People were talking, she realized distractedly. Talking about her. Disjointed snippets filtered into her mind. She recognized Brass describing what had happened. His anger and concern carried clearly in his "the bastard had her trapped." Someone was talking about cinderblock walls and disintegrating bullets. Another voice added that at least it was self-defense. Suspension. That was Ecklie. He sounded upset.

Grissom didn't say anything. He didn't have to. She saw him when he arrived. Angry didn't begin to describe his mood. Brass had to stop him from charging her. She'd avoided his gaze since then, but it still seared into her. Sara didn't feel the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes.

David was talking now. Single shot. Entered the upper abdomen. Exited through the back. Not in a straight line. Must have deflected off the spine or a rib. A fragment from the bullet or bone probably nicked the descending aorta. Explained all the blood, and why her CPR attempts failed.

Explained how she killed him.

"I didn't mean to," she whispered.

The black plastic hid the body of the man – the boy, really – as it was moved to the coroner's van. Sara started to rock slowly back and forth. She killed him. She didn't mean to. He was just eighteen. Too young to die. She only fired once. It killed him. Shots to the abdomen weren't supposed to be immediately fatal. She only wanted to stop Thorpe. He still died.

She was a killer.

Someone told her to hold her arms out, and Sara complied automatically. Angry flashes from the camera blinded her accusingly. Each picture was a permanent record of her taking another human life. A set of coveralls was held in front of her, and it took an effort to understand they needed her clothes. More evidence of her crime. With shaking hands, she peeled the blood-soaked clothes from her blood-stained skin. Proof of her act marked her, for all to see.

After redressing, Sara became aware of people moving towards her. A fresh surge of adrenaline coursed through her body. Trepidation burned away her mental fog. She wanted to see Grissom, and she wanted to hide. How could she make him understand? She hadn't meant to kill the boy. It was an accident. Would he understand?

She glanced at them briefly. Grissom's eyes racked over her body, and she could see they were dark with wrath. A fresh shudder went through her frame, and Sara wrapped her arms around herself tightly. She took a deep breath; she wouldn't deny what she had done. She couldn't. Thorpe's blood still covered her.

It was Brass who asked her to repeat what had happened, and Sara fought in vain to keep her voice from cracking. She focused on the detective; she couldn't face Grissom. Not yet; not until she had a chance to explain. Recounting what happened in the hallway, Sara noted the three exchanging looks when she told them Thorpe had fired first. A cold chill ran down her spine; they doubted her.

"I didn't start it," she insisted.

"Maybe it was a car backfiring," Grissom said to the other men.

She finally turned to him, and her eyes narrowed. Sara expected him to be angry with her for killing Thorpe. She had to live with that; she deserved that. But he didn't believe her? Of all the people in the world, she thought she could count on Grissom. He'd been so supportive lately. But he was calling her a liar. She knew he had been upset earlier when he learned that she was planning on leaving, but Sara couldn't believe he'd take it out on her now.

It had been a big mistake to tell him about her family. She knew from past experience the way people reacted once they learned the truth. Sara had hoped Grissom would be different, but now she realized he was like the others. He'd been waiting for her to snap, waiting for her genetic destiny to manifest. Anger and pain wove with her guilt to form a tangled emotional tapestry. She glared at Grissom and marched towards him.

"I know what a car sounds like when it backfires," Sara half-shouted, furiously shrugging off the hand Brass put on her arm. The panicked look in Grissom's eyes only fired her pent-up emotional release. He actually thought she had gone on some crazed killing-spree.

"And I know what a gun sounds like. I heard one. He fired at me first."

"Sara."

She spun quickly towards Ecklie. He was staring at her intently, an odd expression playing over his features. Finally letting out a sigh, he held out a large evidence bag. A nine-millimeter gun was inside it.

"Thorpe's clip was full. The round was in the chamber. The safety was still set on his gun. Thorpe never fired at you, Sara. It's impossible"

"No," she whispered in shock. She killed him in cold blood? Backing away from them, her head shook erratically from side to side. Brass reached for her arm when she stumbled on the curb, but Sara yanked out of his grasp. "No," she cried again before retreating into the darkness.

* * *

The therapist discreetly stood up and walked to a credenza, where she made fresh cups of tea. Grateful for the measure of privacy, Sara fought to bring her crying under control. She gritted her teeth and snatched another tissue. The memory was too fresh, the crime still raw. 

Handing over the mug, the therapist settled calmly into her seat. She blew softly on her own steaming liquid and regarded the CSI inquisitively. Bringing the cup to her lips, she took a short sip and smiled once Sara composed herself.

"So, why do you blame yourself?"

Sara's head lifted in a sudden motion. After staring incredulously for a moment, she let out a short, sarcastic sigh. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because I killed him!"

"I see. You knew he'd be at that scene? On that night? You went there with the intention of killing Thorpe?"

"No. Of course not," Sara answered shortly. She set her mug down and leaned back on the leather sofa angrily. "But it's what I ended up doing."

"Do you really believe intention isn't important?" She waited as Sara rubbed her arm silently. "Okay, tell me, what's the department's procedure for when you're forced to fire."

"Why are you asking me? You're with the department. You know what it is."

"Humor me," the therapist said evenly. "What's the procedure if you need to defend yourself?"

"You're supposed to aim for the chest. Better chance of stopping your victi … your opponent. You're supposed to fire the entire clip."

"And what would you say your mood was at the time?"

Sara fingers worried a loose thread on her sweater, and she shrugged. "Pissed off."

"You were angry from what he did to you earlier. But what about at the time you shot?" the therapist pressed. "Thorpe had stalked you for days. Threatened you. He trapped you in a dead-end hallway. He pulled a gun on you. You know what he did to Pamela Adler. Weren't you scared?"

"Yeah," Sara allowed, wiping at her eyes. "Yeah. I guess I was."

"Let's review: You were acting in self-defense. You know departmental procedure. Your records show you're qualified. At the time, you were emotionally charged. Despite this, despite all your training, you were able to limit your response to one shot. You even aimed for a non-vital area. All in all, it was a freak shot that killed Thorpe. But this is your fault?"

Sara's head dropped down, swaying from side to side. In their prior sessions, she'd never brought up her fears of becoming like her mother. It had been hard enough to attend the counseling; she was private by nature. She'd kept her darkest fears to herself. How do you explain that your life had become a living nightmare that would only get worse? "You don't understand."

"So tell me," the therapist said, leaning back and taking another sip of tea.

"I heard him fire at me. I _heard_ his gun go off," she said firmly. "I can remember the sound of it. The way it echoed in the hallway, I'm positive I heard it."

"What makes you think you didn't?"

Sara snorted angrily, standing up and pacing the room. "I thought you were supposed to be helping here. Feeding my delusions? Probably not a smart idea."

"Who says you're delusional?"

"Oh, right! I'm hearing things. What does that make me? Schizophrenic? Great. This just keeps getting better," she said, her arms making frantic motions.

"I'd say it makes you human. I know you're upset. I understand that. But there's nothing unusual about your reaction."

Sara stopped short, and then she turned slowly to face the therapist, who sat serenely stirring her tea. "Look, no offense, but if you think that's what's 'normal', you need to get out more. Meet some people that aren't nuts. Or get help yourself."

"Hear me out for a minute," the older woman replied with a gentle look, waiting until Sara sunk back onto the couch. "How many times had Thorpe threatened to shoot you?"

"Twice."

"And that wasn't all he threatened to do to you, was it?"

"No," Sara choked out, closing her eyes as she recalled the violent rape depiction Thorpe left under her door.

"It's safe to say you were stressed."

"That's an understatement."

The older woman nodded her head in agreement. "When you turned around and saw him aiming that gun at you, did you have any reason to doubt that he would do either, or both, to you?"

Sara shook her head dejectedly. "He didn't even have the safety off of his gun. I wasn't in danger. He couldn't have shot me."

"Was there any way you could have known that? And do you really think Thorpe wouldn't have used the opportunity to slide the safety off if you hadn't have shot him?"

Sara leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her hands were clamped in front of her to control the shaking. She didn't respond immediately, staring at the patterns on the Oriental carpet. The geometric design was soothing; the regularity providing a sense of order her mind lacked.

"Look, I understand what you're trying to do. Honestly. You're going to say that it was a normal reaction to the stress. You're going to say that I heard something else, and I thought it was a gun."

"The mind does process stimuli according to the situation," the therapist noted.

"So I've heard," Sara huffed, grabbing a fresh tissue from the box.

"It also happens to be true. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but that tenement is in a bad part of town. There's a lot of gang activity around there. Is it really unreasonable to believe that another gun was fired somewhere in the area?"

"No," Sara said, closing her eyes in defeat. Her counselor meant well, but she didn't get it. A gun firing in an enclosed area makes a distinctive sound. It's different than one going off in a distance. It's different than any sound a car made. Sara knew the sounds well; well enough not to confuse them, no matter how stressed she was.

She was aware that the therapist was watching her appraisingly. Her admission that she could have heard another sound had been hollow even to Sara. They talked for a bit longer, and she went through the motions. Sara even willingly agreed to another round of sessions. But in her heart, she doubted it would help.

Sara knew that she had heard Thorpe's gun, but that hadn't happened. Her mind had made it all up. The sound, the retort – none of it had been real. The delusion was so convincing that even now she still believed what she had heard, although she knew it was physically impossible.

Wasn't that a definition of insanity?

Her life had never been easy, but she survived everything it had thrown at her. Scars remained, though. She knew she had issues with trust and self-confidence in personal matters, but Sara never doubted her mental skills. It wasn't false pride. She had the awards, the scholarships and the professional record to attest to her intellect. It had been the _only_ constant in her life. And now it was something she could no longer count on.

Her head was hanging low as Sara left. She couldn't go to work; she was suspended pending an investigation. Exhaustion was threatening to take her over. She hadn't eaten or slept since the shooting the day before, but she didn't want to go home. Her cell phone was off. She expected a stack of messages to be waiting for her, but she wasn't in the mood to talk to her friends. They would need reassuring that she was all right, and Sara couldn't give that to them.

Standing on the sidewalk in front of the building, Sara stared into the cityscape feeling utterly lost. She didn't know what to do. Nothing made any sense. Wandering down the street, she wondered if anything ever would again.

* * *

Brass pulled into the apartment parking lot, letting out a relieved sigh when he saw Sara's vehicle. He'd stopped by several times since the shooting. This was the first time it had been there. He understood better than anyone that she needed space and time to come to grips with what had happened, but enough was enough. No one said anything when she didn't answer her phone at first, but Atwater and Ecklie had been getting impatient. He'd been developing an ulcer.

He got out and waited a long minute. Walking around to the passenger side, Brass opened the door and stared into the interior. After an awkward silence, the detective rolled his eyes. "We're here. Are you getting out or not?" he asked irritably.

"Why did you drag me along?" Grissom responded with equal vexation. At the resulting annoyed stare, he unfastened his seatbelt and exited the car slowly. "I can wait here. I don't even know why I'm here."

"If you don't know that answer, my friend, you're not as smart as people think you are."

"Sara won't want to see me."

Grissom had no doubts about the veracity of his statement, and his voice was harsh with repressed emotion. At the scene, Brass had to stop him from rushing to Sara's side, but she'd turned away from him. She didn't want him then, why would she want him now? It was his fault; he'd lost his temper earlier. No, it had already been too late then. Sara already made plans to get another job, to leave the lab. To leave him. He hadn't even warranted a warning.

"I think you might be wrong," Brass said, his expression softening when Grissom turned to him questioningly. "Hey, I know. I'm talking to you. But even you get things wrong from time to time."

Grissom responded with a grunt. He harbored no false illusions. In his mind, he knew this day had been bound to come, but foreknowledge didn't ease the pain. "She won't even return my phone calls."

"She won't return anyone's calls. No one, and I mean no one, has heard from her since the shooting." He waited until the implications sank in before waving Grissom forward. "The brass, so to speak, are getting antsy. It was self-defense, but avoiding their calls? That makes people wonder if she's hiding something."

"That's insane! Thorpe tracked her down and confronted her. No one can say she acted inappropriately."

Brass repressed a smile. He had no idea why Grissom was so hesitant to see Sara, but his reaction settled one thing. There was no doubt he cared. But it did make his reluctance seem even more out of place.

"Hey, I'm on your side here. But Thorpe's mother is crying foul. He was a creep, but he was her creep. She may try to make trouble for Sara. Ecklie is being his normal unfriendly self, too. The facts are on our side, though. It's all been documented."

After taking a few steps, he noticed Grissom wasn't following him. An uneasy feeling came over the detective. He turned his head around and grimaced at him. "You did fill out a report. Right? Please, Gil. Tell me you documented all of the shit Thorpe did to Sara. Any of it."

Grissom closed his eyes, and his hand wearily reached up to rub his temple. He heard the sigh from his companion and shook his head.

"Well, I did document it. And the DA and the judge can verify Thorpe caused trouble in the courthouse. It does look funny that you never filed a report," Brass added, pausing to give him a perturbed look. "Of course, paperwork gets lost, right? Maybe you'll find a copy of those reports on your desk when you get back to the office?"

"Jim," Grissom exhaled.

"Yeah. It was just a thought. Come on. Sara needs a friend."

"I think that takes us back to my earlier statement," he said, grudgingly following the detective. "She doesn't want to see me."

"Don't be so sure about that. Look, put yourself in Sara's shoes. You've never shot anyone. You don't know what it's like. She needed time to get herself together. But she's going to need friends later."

"Right."

The detective rolled his eyes at his colleague's petulant tone. Grissom needed to get out of his funk. It wasn't going to do Sara any good to see him this way. Looking at his distracted friend, he bobbed his head decisively. He always excelled at being the 'bad cop'.

"Hey! This isn't about you. You're not the one that creep terrorized. You're not the one that he threatened. Or the one that killed him. Stop pouting. Think about what's best for Sara here," he said harshly.

Grissom merely shrugged. "I am thinking about her. That's why I should go. I'll only make things worse," he declared. "I already have."

Brass cocked his head and looked at his friend in confusion. Something was going on between the two of them. It had been ages since they were openly hostile, but it had been abundant lately. Thorpe's antics caused Sara – each of them – to be on edge, but that hadn't explained all of the tension.

Watching Grissom now, he noted the mask of indifference on his face. It couldn't reach his eyes, though; they told a tale of inner pain and anguish. He really did believe what he was saying, and it was tearing him up. A glimmer of understanding formed in his mind, and Brass nodded his head instinctively.

He had seen Grissom's barely controlled rage at the scene. It had taken an effort to keep him away from Sara, even after he learned the blood covering her was Thorpe's. Brass had no doubts the scientist would have torn the rapist apart with his bare hands if he had hurt Sara. Oh, yeah, there was something else going on here, and it wasn't giving him a warm-fuzzy feeling.

Brass had arrived at the scene while she was desperately trying to perform CPR on the body, tears running down her face. He had to pull her away when the ambulance arrived. Sara had collapsed, both mentally and physically, when the paramedics called Thorpe. He'd felt she needed space to decompress from her attack, to let her process what had happened. Grissom's frantic mood wouldn't have helped her any. Now, the detective wondered if keeping them apart had been a mistake.

"She'll be glad you're here," he said encouragingly.

"Jim, I'm telling you. I'm the last person she wants right now. You go."

"I'll bet you're wrong," Brass said, giving him a half-smile as he knocked on Sara's apartment door.

Both men started when it opened to reveal a bare chest. A muscular, male chest. Looking up, they met the gaze of an almost-nude Hank Peddigrew.

* * *

Doc Robbins stood over Thorpe's body, shaking his head sadly as he shifted his weight on his crutch. Dispassionately, he spoke his initial observations into the recorder, noting visible characterizations. His headshake took on another meaning as he measured the angles of the plastic straws marking the bullet's entry and exit wounds.

Turning off his recorder, he gave David a resigned look as they removed the straws and rolled the body onto its back. "He's only eighteen. That's too young to die. But that's probably middle-aged for a gang member."

"They don't even value their own lives," David said. "I don't understand people."

"Neither do I. Until they end up on my table, where all is revealed," Robbins quipped. "Shall we?"

After making the Y-incision, the coroner began removing the internal organs, his features set in concentration. Bullets fragment in seemingly random patterns once in the body, and he was on the lookout for the telltale shearing damage caused by the pieces. As he handed each organ to David to be weighed and sampled, Robbins frowned.

The divergent wounds suggested the bullet ricocheted on a bone before exiting the body. Each bullet shattered in its own way, turning every body into a unique gory puzzle. But the damage to Thorpe's organs was more extensive than he expected. Bone fragments poked from various sites.

Robbins leaned back, his eyebrows rising as he contemplated his next move. The pieces of bone confirmed the bullet had hit one, but the fragments were spread out in a wide pattern. He was having a hard time mentally recreating the path the bullet had taken.

"David," he finally called out. "Set up the fluoroscope."

* * *

Brass darted his eyes to the side quickly. Grissom's mouth was still open, but his muscles were visibly tightening as his anger grew. Realizing an ugly confrontation was about to erupt, the detective moved between them. Seeing another bloody death wouldn't help Sara any. Besides, nightshift was already down one CSI; they didn't need two on suspension. The strength of the arm trying to shove him aside was surprising, but not as much as the paramedic's response.

"Hey! Great timing!"

"I beg your pardon," Brass sputtered, bracing himself against the doorframe.

"I'm glad you're here. I was getting ready to call someone," Peddigrew replied. He seemed completely unfazed to be standing in just his shorts and socks as he stepped aside to make way for them. "Come on in."

"What?" Grissom snarled, trying again to move around Brass. Images of the paramedic taking advantage of Sara raced through his mind, and he could taste bile. Earlier concerns that she wouldn't want to see him were replaced by a desire to make sure she was all right. If Peddigrew had hurt her ...

"Hold up, Hank."

The duo turned around and watched dumbfounded as a second paramedic came jogging up the hallway. He was carrying a spare uniform and a large plastic trash bag. Brass turned back to stare inquisitively at Peddigrew, but the sound of retching carried from inside the apartment.

"Sara's sick?" he asked, literally lifted off his feet as Grissom finally forced his way into the apartment.

"Not really," Peddigrew answered.

"I think you better start explaining," Brass said, watching as his friend tried to open the bathroom door. He grabbed his arm, pulling him into the living room area, indicating he should give Sara some privacy. Grissom reluctantly followed, leaning against the far wall, where he stared angrily as the EMT dressed.

"We had a call of a patron collapsing at the Redwoods Diner. When we got there, we saw it was Sara. She'd passed out in her booth. She started to come around as we were checking her out."

"Drunk?" Brass asked worriedly. He kept his eyes on the paramedic, but he saw Grissom bolt upright.

"In a sense," Peddigrew said. "The manager said she was only partway into her third beer when she passed out. She hadn't started her meal, and her blood sugar was low. There're rings under her eyes, so I'd say she probably hasn't slept much lately, either. With all that's happened, I guess that isn't a surprise."

"She refused medical treatment, but she wasn't in any shape to drive. Her place was on the way back to the station. Hank drove Sara back here in her car, and I followed," the other paramedic added.

"And you always do a striptease for your patients?" Grissom asked, his sarcasm barely covering his anger.

"Only when they throw up on us," the other EMT joked, jabbing his elbow into Peddigrew's ribs.

The bathroom door opened, distracting Grissom's attention. Sara looked terrible. Her hair was awry, and water stained the front of her shirt. Her skin was an unhealthy pale tone, and her eyes vacant. She walked unsteadily into the kitchen, absentmindedly waving her arm to clear a path. Taking a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, she drank it slowly. A sickly groan escaped her lips.

"You're still here?" she asked when she saw Peddigrew returning from the bathroom. "How many different women are you screwing now? Is Whatsherface in the dark this time around?"

Hank smiled embarrassedly as the room's other occupants stared at him. He turned to Grissom, but the look he received made him change his mind. Speaking to Brass, he continued to stuff his fouled uniform into the trash bag.

"Sara'll be fine. She didn't have that much to drink. Exhaustion and lack of food played a bigger part in her passing out. But it wouldn't be a bad idea for someone to stay with her. Just in case."

"I don't need a babysitter," she muttered, resting the cold bottle against her forehead.

"Sara," Grissom said, fighting to keep his voice soft. His temper was still piqued, but his concern for her was stronger. Even if she didn't want him, he couldn't ignore her when she was in need.

"You?" she slurred, waving her hand as she staggered towards her bedroom. "Hank, take Grissom with you when you go. You'll like him. He's a bastard, too."

Brass rocked back on his heels as the room fell into an uneasy silence. The paramedics looked embarrassed, and it was obvious Grissom was alternating between rage and heartbreak.

"Okay! That went so well," the detective said with a false levity. He pointed to the paramedic. "Thanks for your help, but I think it's time you left. Now. Probably wouldn't be a good idea to come back, either."

"Right," Peddigrew responded, quickly exiting the apartment.

Facing Grissom, he pulled his lips back in a grimace. His friend wasn't even trying to hide his pain. Brass shrugged apologetically. "So, I guess you were right, after all. She didn't want to see you."

"I'm so glad you find this amusing."

Brass walked to his friend, gently herding him towards the door. "I don't, Gil. She's upset. Don't take it personally. The alcohol only made it worse."

"In vino veritas," Grissom noted sadly. "A person is more likely to say what they really mean when they're drunk."

"Some people. I've been there. It's worse than you can imagine. You say things you don't mean. She needed to take out her frustrations on someone. You got the honors that time."

"She means it," he said. Grissom dropped his head in defeat and any lingering hopes he had of convincing Sara to stay evaporated. "I … lost my temper earlier. She told me she had an interview for another job. I … didn't handle it well."

"Look, take my car back to the station. I'll stay here with Sara. You go home and get some rest yourself. You're the guy with all the quotes. Isn't there something about things are never as bad as they seem?"

Once Grissom was gone, Brass let out a groan. So much for trying to help. Walking by the bathroom, he winced and reached in to turn on the overhead fan before closing the door. He went to her bedroom, knocking softly when he heard a muttering coming from inside.

Going into the room, he planted his hands on his hips in his best angry parent mode, and shook his head at her. Sara lay haphazardly across the bed, her limbs akimbo as she tried to untie a stubborn shoelace. He could see she was getting upset, swearing at the inanimate object. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Brass pulled her legs onto his lap, and he slid her shoes off.

"Jim?"

"Hey, doll," he replied, gently extracting himself and standing back up. "You are a real mess, you know that?"

"Hell, you don't know half of it," Sara mumbled, smiling as he tried to politely maneuver her body so her head moved towards the pillows.

"Oh, I'm going to know. You and me? We're going to have a nice little chat when you're sober."

"Not drunk."

"Of course you're not. You're the picture of perfect sobriety," he said softly, rolling his eyes as he eased the covers over her. "You get some sleep. I'll be in the other room if you need anything."

"You're staying? Oh, that's nice," Sara said, unsteadily lifting her head up and smiling wanly. "You're a nice guy, Jim. I mean that. You are a real good guy. Why couldn't I have fallen for you, huh?"

"Oh, now I know you're drunk!"

Brass smiled sadly as she curled up into a ball. A quick search of the room located a trashcan, which he placed strategically by her side. He made a face as he considered the odds it would end up being used. "Figures I just had this suit cleaned," he sighed.

* * *

Sofia wove her way across the pockmarked pavement, her eyes trained on the sight in front of her. A frown formed as she saw the figure bending over the crime scene tape, staring into the tenement's doorway. She shouldn't even be there.

"Doc, what the hell is going on?" she called out.

"And a good afternoon to you, too," Robbins replied, hobbling his way under the crime scene tape. He stood to the side of the staircase, running his eyes around the area, noting the locations of where Sara had knelt and where Thorpe's body had been found. His free hand came up to scratch his beard as he walked around the edges of the room.

"I'm assuming there's a reason you woke me up to come here," she asked with a trace of impatience as she entered the building. "This was dayshift's case. Ecklie didn't want graveyard to handle it."

"I don't care whose case it is. I'm the head coroner for Clark County. The crime scene is mine. And I'm trying to understand what happened."

"Okay," she sighed. "That's why you're here. Why did you call me out?"

Robbins turned to her, and Sofia was surprised that he was smiling. "I need your help."

* * *

Brass was in the apartment's small kitchen when Sara eventually exited the bedroom. Groaning and holding her head, she walked by him without registering his presence. Reaching the closed bathroom door, she stopped and cocked her head in bafflement. With a confused grunt, she opened the door, but retreated immediately as the smell reached her.

"The aftermath is never as much fun, is it?"

Sara jumped and let out a frightened yelp. It turned to a moan of pain when she saw who it was. Sinking onto the couch, she cradled her head. A fresh groan emerged after Brass pulled a hand away. She took the aspirin and bottled water from him with an incoherent thanks. After swallowing the medicine, she attempted to glare at him.

"Damn, Brass! What the hell were you trying to do? Do you have any idea how jumpy I am? You scared the shit out of me. Do you have any idea what I could have done to you?"

"Puked on me?" he quipped brightly.

"Ugh. Don't mention puking. Any bodily fluids. Greasy food. Runny eggs. None of it," she warned him weakly.

Brass shook his head in mock-horror, smiling evilly at her swearing response. He retreated to the kitchen and retrieved two mugs of coffee. Sara grunted, quickly taking a drink of the hot liquid. Her face scrunched in disgust.

"This coffee is terrible."

"Yeah, well, my domestic skills are rusty. I've been lost ever since they put Martha Stewart away. Besides, you're in no position to complain. What's the big idea eloping like that?" Brass asked with a hurt expression.

Sara's eyes opened widely. Panic settled over her features. Slowly, she lifted her head, staring at him in shock. "I did what?"

"That paramedic guy. He had to go to work. Said he'd be back later for the honeymoon. He seemed awfully eager to get started on that," Brass said, lifting his eyebrows salaciously.

Sara again attempted to glare at him, but she ended up grimacing in pain. She took another sip of the brew, shaking her head at the taste. That triggered another round of moans. "Real funny, Brass. Ha. Ha. It's impossible to get that drunk. And no lectures," she instructed. "I killed a kid. I think I deserved to get drunk after that."

"No arguments from me on that count," he replied, walking to the chair and settling in. "I know what it's like. Years ago, I killed a passenger in a car. I ended up on permanent desk duty after that. I don't remember about three days after that. But I wasn't stupid enough to drive."

"I wasn't. I was going to take a taxi home," Sara said, patting her pocket until she found a scrap of paper. "My address. I was all set."

"That idea only works if you're able to tell someone to call you a taxi. And it's still dumb. Did you ever think the cab driver might not be a model citizen? What could have happened to you?"

"Know the owner of the diner. He's a friend of the taxi dispatcher. He'd make sure everything was cool. No problem."

"Yeah, that's something we never hear on the job. You're lucky your, ah … friend? … was there to drive you home."

She snorted sarcastically and went to take another drink. The mug paused at her lips, and Sara tilted her head in concentration. Her eyes turned to Brass after a moment. "I puked on Hank, didn't I?"

"Oh, it certainly smelled that way."

"Good," she said, smiling as her eyebrow went up. Again, she started to take a drink, only to pause as memories came back. This time, she looked at Brass hesitantly. "Grissom was here, wasn't he?"

"Uh, huh."

"Did I puke on him?"

"Nope."

"Damn," she sighed, closing her eyes as she curled up on the couch.

"Oh, come on. He was here to help," Brass said impatiently, noting her nearly-silent snort. Watching her, he tried to evaluate her mood. She was upset, which was normal after a shooting, but the gloom literally rolled off of her body.

"Maybe I don't want help," Sara sighed.

"Don't want it, don't want it from him or don't think you deserve it?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "Do I have to pick one?"

"I'd appreciate it. It would help me understand what's going on."

"It's pretty simple. I killed Thorpe. I swore I'd never kill someone. That I'd never become the type of person that could take another life."

"I realize that," Brass said slowly. "And? It was self-defense. I don't think anyone's going to be crying a river at his funeral."

"I would."

"Why? He was scum, Sara. He was going to kill you. If you were lucky, that's all the creep was planning."

"He had the safety on his gun!"

"So? That just means he was a stupid creep. It doesn't change anything," Brass stated. "Tell me this – if Thorpe had been threatening someone else, what would you have done? You want me to believe you would have let him kill me or Nicky? Grissom?"

"No dice, Jim. If he was threatening someone else, I'd have shot him, sure. But I'd still be upset if I killed him. But it was just the three of us in there. Him, me and my overactive imagination."

Seeing her wiping at her eyes, Brass dug into his pocket. Taking a pen, he jotted something down and passed it to Sara. "We found a sheet of paper with this written on it at his place."

"What is it?" Sara asked in confusion.

"Oh, break my heart, why don't you? That's my license plate number and home address. You weren't the only one on Thorpe's list," Brass said. Taking the paper back, he added some more lines and handed it to her again. "I see you recognize that. Yeah, he was after Grissom, too."

"How did he get this information?"

"We haven't figured that out yet. But it's not important. What's important is that you stopped him. If you hadn't, you'd be dead, Sara. The rest of us would have been next. Do you remember Mr. Murphy? He's the manager at your grocery store."

"What about him?"

"The doctors think he'll live," Brass said, nodding when her head snapped painfully up. "Thorpe attacked him. He carved him up pretty badly. The knife was in the back of his pants. Don't think this punk was just playing around."

Sara curled into a ball on her sofa. She had no doubts what Thorpe intended; he'd been clear about that. The trouble was she snapped. Her mind created a scene that caused her to panic. She had no problems defending herself, but in her haste, she'd fired a fatal shot. If she had remained in control, she could have incapacitated Thorpe.

"I lost it, Jim. I swear, I really thought he fired first. I wasn't trying to kill him."

"It's a damn good thing you did!" he said, anger infiltrating his voice for the first time. "That's something else we have to talk about. What the hell were you trying to do? You know one shot, if it isn't fatal, is only going to piss someone off. Thorpe was dangerous enough. We're going to pay a visit to the firing range before you go back to work. I'm going to drill procedure into your head until it's second nature. Capiche?"

"Don't bother. It really doesn't matter any more."

"Are you serious about leaving?"

Sara looked at him in surprise. After a beat, she shrugged weakly. "Grissom told you about that? Kinda doubt it. I can't exactly leave in the middle of my own shooting investigation. I don't know what I'm going to do. About anything."

Brass let out a sad sigh. Getting up, he sat beside her on the couch. He bumped her body, offering an apology when Sara moaned loudly. "Look, you go get your shower. Eat something. Go back to bed. Trust me. You'll feel better once you get some rest. I wasn't joking earlier. I do know what you're going through. The worse thing you can do right now is ignore your friends."

"I wasn't ready to tell everyone I was okay," she grumbled, but an embarrassed flush crept up her cheeks. "I'm still not."

"Then don't do it. No one expects you to be all right. Well maybe you. If you think you should be okay right now, you're crazy."

"Oh, I'm sure of that," she said with a humorless chuckle.

Brass patted her hand gently. "It'll get better. Don't forget your friends, okay? We've been worried. Part of being a friend is letting your friends help you."

"You're right," Sara admitted, forcibly climbing off the sofa. She headed to the bathroom, but her face scrunched as she opened the door. "Ugh."

"Don't look at me. I'm not cleaning up in there. Consider it a life lesson. You have to clean up your own messes."

"Thanks, Brass."

He smiled as he walked to her. "Look, I'll take care of Atwater and Ecklie. You don't need to deal with that bureaucratic bullshit now. You call your buddies. I'd start with Gil. You really hurt him by calling him a bastard in front of everybody, you know that?"

"I'm not falling for that trick twice, Jim. I wasn't that drunk," she sighed, resting her forehead against the bathroom doorframe.

"I'm not joking, Sara."

She turned around anxiously, shaking her head slightly. "No. I didn't do that."

"You did."

"Oh, God, tell me I didn't do that. Shit. I probably did. Great. What else can I screw up? Don't answer that," she whispered sadly, closing her eyes as she sank to the floor. "I really don't want to think about that now. No. Don't talk about it. I'm serious."

"Hey, your call. But you should talk to Gil later," the detective said.

"I, uh, think I've said enough. I don't think he'll want to listen to me. Not after what I said. And you better have a damn good reason for laughing at me."

"I'm not laughing at you, sweetheart. Well, yes I am. I'm laughing at both of you. Grissom told me the exact same thing on the way over here, except it was you that didn't want anything to do with him. And this is the same guy that had to be restrained by two officers from killing Thorpe."

Sara pried an eye open and stared at the detective in disbelief. "Grissom? Out of control?"

"It's not surprising. You know him. He always acts a bit…"

"Withdrawn?" she suggested.

"Reserved. But everything that's important to him, he does with passion. He doesn't go around flaunting the way he feels. In fact, he bottles it up. And you know what happens when you shake up a bottle. The pressure keeps building, so when you do open up, it's going to burst out. It's probably even going to be messy."

"I think I'm still drunk," Sara sighed, rubbing her temple. She gave the detective a one-eyed stare. "We're talking about the same Grissom?"

"I really hope there's only one of him! I don't think the world is ready for more than one," Brass quipped. "At least talk to him, Sara. If nothing else, you should apologize. I tried to tell him not to take it personally, but he did."

"I will. After I shower. And I get my brain back into my skull. Thanks," she said, ungracefully climbing to her feet to join him at the apartment door. "You really are a nice guy."

"Just keep it to yourself, okay? We can't have the scum of the city knowing I'm really a big teddy bear."

* * *

After seeing him out, Sara retreated to the bathroom. Eventually, she came back out, cleaner than when she went in. A stack of towels joined her bedding and clothes in a laundry pile. She eyed the kitchen, but her stomach protested the idea of food too much to eat. Grabbing her cell phone, she groaned at the number of messages. Settling onto the couch with a decent cup of coffee, she started the process of calling her friends. 

She'd phoned everyone except for Grissom. That wasn't going to be an easy conversation, and Sara had no idea where to start. Things had gone badly so quickly. He'd taken the news of her plans to leave personally, even though there was nothing between them. If it hadn't have been so painful to him, it would have made her angry.

And it also appeared that she had misjudged his reaction at the scene. He'd been furious, but it hadn't been directed at her. She was trying to wrap her mind around the things Brass had told her.

When the knock came at the door, her eyebrow went up in surprise. Had Grissom come back? She doubted that; she had no memory of insulting him in front of the others, but there was no reason for Brass to lie. He'd be too hurt to give her another chance. That particular bridge had been rickety to begin with, but she doubted any of it remained.

Checking the peephole, Sara frowned. She didn't recognize the man outside. Opening the door cautiously, she took the business card he held out.

"Miss Sidle? I know you probably don't remember me. I'm Thomas Adler. It was my wife, Pamela, that Tony Thorpe attacked."

"I remember," she said and stepped back to invite him into her apartment.

Adler took a seat on the couch, nervously fiddling his hands. He declined Sara's offer of a drink. Once she sat down, he took a deep breath and let it out loudly as his words rushed out.

"I can only imagine how you feel right now. I'm sorry for bothering you at home. Don't worry, I'm not staying long. I just wanted to talk to you. Well, actually, I wanted to thank you, but that probably sounds too harsh. But I, the whole family, we've been afraid that Thorpe would come back. Finish what he did to Pamela," Adler said, his voice choking with emotion.

Sara leaned back into the chair, uncertain how to respond. Thanks for killing Thorpe was the last thing she wanted. But looking at Adler, she could tell he was honest. He was still a young man, but his hair was already graying. Stress lines marred the corners of his eyes. Thorpe had terrified her for days. What had it been like to live with that fear for years?

Clearing his throat, Adler smiled shyly at Sara. "You must think I'm a monster. I'm not. I don't believe in violence. But I won't lie. I am so glad Thorpe is dead. I … I can finally rest, knowing Pam won't suffer because of him again."

"How is she?" Sara stammered, trying to find a way to respond to his comments.

"The same. The same as yesterday. And the day before. And every day since Thorpe attacked her. I understand now. Everything that made Pam who she is died that day. Her body doesn't realize it. The doctors say she doesn't feel any pain. I really hope they're right."

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said, her own tears joining Adler's.

"Thank you. I still visit her. Almost every day."

"She's lucky to have someone who cares so much for her."

"Honestly, it would probably make Pam upset," he laughed, wiping at his eyes. "If she could, I bet she'd tell me to move on. That I shouldn't waste my life. Even her parents have told me I should file for a divorce or an annulment. But I can't."

Sara sat in her chair, sympathetically watching as Adler composed himself. His grief was still raw, and it struck a chord with her. She wanted to offer him some solace, but she had none to give. All she could do was let him talk.

"Sorry. I … this is still painful. They say time heals wounds, but what if the wound is always fresh? Every time I see her there, I think she's asleep. I know she'll never wake up, but every single time, I hope she will. And when she doesn't … Everyone tells me if I stop visiting, it'll be easier, but they're wrong.

"I love Pamela. Some people claim they're in love, but they don't know what they're talking about. It's not the real thing. Not true, once-in-a-lifetime love. I could stop seeing her at the home. I could get a divorce. Even find another wife. But, she's here," he stated, tapping his chest firmly. "She always will be. All that other stuff? I can run away from her physically, but I'd never get away. She'll always have my soul. And that's a good thing. Believe it or not."

"I … do," Sara said, her head nodding of its own accord.

"You love someone like that."

"It's … not exactly the same."

Adler gave her a brief smile. "Pamela and I had a great relationship, but it wasn't always easy. We went to the same high school. I'm pretty sure she hated my guts there. I, uh, I could be a jerk at times. And she wasn't always a saint. Things started out rough for us, but I think the troubles made what we had stronger. We tested our relationship, and it survived. We knew it was a strong one, and that is really a powerful thing to know."

He paused, swallowing repeatedly. Sara could see the pain coming back to his eyes. When he looked up, she was greeted by a haunted look. "I still wonder, though. Did Pam really know how much I loved her? Did she know what she meant to me? You never think the last time you talk to someone will be the last chance you'll get. She probably would have thought I was crazy, but if I could tell her again, I'd make sure she knew everything. So there'd be no doubt that she knew."

"I'm sure she knew," Sara offered kindly. "And if Pamela had the chance, I think she'd tell you how much you meant to her."

"Thank you," Adler choked, standing quickly. "I'm sorry. I didn't come here to cry on your shoulder. I guess I shouldn't thank you for killing Thorpe, but I do thank you for all you did for Pamela. You caught him. I, uh, I don't know what any of us would have done if Thorpe hadn't been identified. Thank you for that."

"You're welcome. I … wish I could have done more."

"You did all anyone could have done. I'll be going now. I know you have a lot to deal with, with the shooting and all. Thanks for listening to me."

"You're welcome," Sara repeated.

Sinking back onto her couch, she stared at the cell phone. Pursing her lips, she picked it up. Her finger drifted over the speed dial. Sara knew she owed Grissom an apology. Adler's statement had resonated with her. But that didn't make things any easier. With a sigh, she set the phone back down and retreated to her bedroom.

* * *

This had better be good," Ecklie growled in Grissom's ear as they walked towards the building. He made a disagreeable sound when he saw the sheriff waiting for them, and he eyed his subordinate with obvious distaste. "This wasn't graveyard's case. I told you to stay away from it. What are you trying to prove?" 

"Conrad, I have no idea what's going on here. I had a page to show up," he replied honestly.

"This whole thing is a mess. I warned you she was a loose cannon."

Grissom clenched his fists in silent fury. His own thoughts about Sara were in a swirl. Her sudden plans to leave had been painful on many levels, but her accusation at her apartment cut him deeply. But there was no way he'd let anyone blame her for what happened.

"That's interesting, Conrad. Can I include the fact you think it would have been better if Sara let Thorpe kill her in my report to the sheriff?" he asked in a loud voice, taking a small victory in the way Atwater spun around.

"That's not what I said," Ecklie replied. "Don't mess with me, Grissom. Believe it or not, I want what's best for the lab. Having a CSI that hears things and shoots isn't in the best interest of the lab. Do you know what's going to happen when that becomes public knowledge? You don't have any political skills, and both of you are going to need them. And what is Sofia doing?"

Grissom's eyes narrowed as he saw Sofia walking the perimeter, taking photos as she went. He trusted her abilities, but this was the wrong case to show initiative. Thorpe's mother was threatening to sue, and he didn't want anyone doing anything to inadvertently complicate things for Sara.

"Curtis!"

She paused in her actions, standing up when Ecklie strode to her angrily. Grissom followed, but did a quick double take when he saw the coroner limping out of the building. He stopped and waited for Robbins to join him, his head cocked to the side in confusion. The doctor's cheerful smile only added to his bewilderment.

"What's going on here? I called dayshift in specifically to handle the shooting. Do I need to remind you that this wasn't your case?" Ecklie demanded.

"Sofia is here because I called her. Do I need to remind you the scene is mine until I release it?" Robbins asked dryly, his smile fading as he moved to join the others.

Grissom trailed behind. He glanced towards Sofia, silently asking for an explanation, but she gave a quick wink. With a sigh, he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He didn't really want to be at the scene of Sara's attack. The memories of that night still troubled him. Even now, after dwelling on it non-stop, he wasn't sure where he had gone wrong. He'd thought they'd been making progress, but Sara had been planning on leaving him all along.

"Gentlemen," Atwater said diplomatically. "We all work together. Albert, of course the coroner's office controls the scene. But you have to admit it's unusual for you to be out here, or to bring in other CSIs."

"I know. But I needed to see the scene to understand what happened. I asked Sofia for help in that."

"What's to understand?" Ecklie asked irritably. "Sara shot and killed a man who pulled a gun on her."

"I know you're ambitious, Conrad, but I think I'm still the head coroner. Leave the cause of death to me."

"Well, what other conclusion can you reach?" he asked sarcastically.

"Sara didn't kill Thorpe," Robbins stated.

Grissom dropped his hand away from his face suddenly. His mouth was open as he turned his head to each of the other people present. Ecklie and Atwater had similar expressions, but Sofia and the coroner were both smiling.

"I … don't … what?" Grissom finally stammered. "Al, Sara shot him. Her gun had been fired. If she didn't kill him, what did?"

The coroner's eyes twinkled in mirth as he watched them exchanging confused looks. With his free hand, he pointed to the tenement's doorway. "I think I can explain this easier inside. This way, gentlemen. And Sofia."

Robbins walked into the building, leading them down the darkened hallway. Portable lights had been set up, illuminating the bloodstained walls. Grissom flinched in sympathy for Sara. It had to have been a nightmare for her, trying to save Thorpe's life in the cramped space while his blood gushed from his body.

"Okay, Sofia, go to Sara's position again," Robbins directed. After she knelt in a similar manner to where Sara had fired, he stood in front of her. "Sara fell there. She was on one knee. Thorpe was here, and when she fired, the bullet entered here," he said, pointing to where the light from the laser Sofia held hit his body. After the others nodded, Robbins pulled an evidence bag from his jacket pocket. "This is the same bullet."

"What?" Grissom asked, the first to grasp the significance of the finding. There had been two wounds on the body. Sara's bullet had to have exited. The wound on the back wasn't as large as a normal exit wound, but they'd assumed that the bullet had fragmented when it deflected off the bone.

"Bobby's already matched the markings to the test bullets fired from Sara's pistol. The bullet was lodged in Thorpe's spine. At most, she would have paralyzed him," Robbins said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a second bag. It was full of small, metallic fragments. "This is the bullet that killed Thorpe."

"The exit wound? It was from a second bullet?" Ecklie asked incredulously.

"Yes. I don't know what Bobby will be able to tell you about this one. I can tell you that it hit the rear of the ribcage when it entered, and it fragmented on impact. The bullet and bone fragments caused damage to multiple organs. It also lacerated the aorta. That's what killed him."

"Sara was right," Grissom whispered. In the stunned silence, his voice carried eerily. He looked up with an astonished expression. A small smile graced his lips. "She did hear another weapon fire."

"The second bullet entered his back roughly here," Robbins said, holding his hand up with the fingers indicating the angle. He started walking towards the entrance. "The other shooter stood here. Sofia found the shell casing in an empty apartment. It rolled under the door."

"Sara never would have seen the other shooter. He was directly behind Thorpe. If you turn these floodlights off, you can't see a thing," Sofia added.

"Good. Sara will be glad to know she didn't kill Thorpe," Grissom sighed. He'd be able to give her some good news. "She'll probably be upset he died, but she can't blame herself for it."

Robbins let out a huff of breath as he turned to face his colleagues. "You can tell her it was a good thing the bullet did kill Thorpe. If it hadn't have hit the bone and shattered, it would have been a through-and-through shooting."

They watched as the coroner pulled his own laser pointer from his pocket and motioned for Sofia to step aside. Moving into position, Robbins held the light so it matched the trajectory of the bullet. Grissom followed the beam of light curiously. He paled and swallowed around the dryness in his throat as realization dawned.

* * *

Sara walked forward slowly, her eyes trained on the doorway as she tried to figure out what to say. It was always easier to talk to Grissom if she had a chance to rehearse beforehand, but she had no idea how to even start. She'd been unable to call him; she wanted to apologize in person. It seemed a small thing after insulting him in public.

Adler's visit had convinced her that she had to talk to Grissom about other things. A few times in the past, she'd let him know how she felt, but it had always been indirectly. She'd never actually said the words. Now Sara planned to tell him exactly how she felt. They may part on bad terms, but she never wanted him to doubt how she felt or how dear he'd been to her.

The only trouble was Sara questioned whether Grissom would listen.

Reaching the entrance to his townhouse, she let out a sigh and gave her body a shake. Sara knocked softly and braced herself. The moment the door opened, she'd start her apology before he could shut her out.

"Hey. I'm so sorry for what I said earlier. I really am. Can I come in?" she gushed out before the overwhelming odor of alcohol registered. Sara blinked and ran her eyes over him. Grissom was dressed only in a faded pair of sweatpants and his hair was tousled. A nearly-empty glass of amber liquid was in his hand.

He didn't answer but turned around and took an uneven course to his breakfast bar. Sara came in, closing the door behind her. She followed him, her eyes widening as he refilled the glass and took a long swallow. Her attention went to the bottle. It was nearly empty, but she had no idea how full it had been when he started.

"Are you okay?" she asked worriedly.

"Oh, I'm just peachy! Everything is just perfect!" he said sarcastically, sloshing the glass in the air. "Like you give a damn."

Sara winced and dropped her head in embarrassment. Grissom definitely was upset with her. She considered leaving; even if he'd listen to her, she doubted he'd comprehend or remember. Huffing out a resolute breath, she lifted her head. Now was the worst time to leave him alone. Closing the distance between them, she smiled kindly.

"Believe me, you're going to regret this when you wake up," Sara told him firmly, reaching over to take the glass from him. She sighed as he swatted ineffectively at her hand and took another deep swig. "Hey! I'm serious. I think you've had enough."

"No, I haven't. It still hurts."

She watched sadly as he staggered away from her. Acting quickly, she grabbed the bottle of Scotch and hid it behind a bookcase before rejoining him. "Oh. I am sorry for calling you a bastard. I don't even know why I said it."

He made some gurgling sound in his throat in response. Sara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It was obvious something had him very upset. And her head still ached from her own escape into the bottle. She made a mental note to thank Brass again for putting up with her earlier drunken display.

"Grissom," she said, rubbing his bare arm. "I am sorry. Do you understand? I didn't mean it."

"You always say what you mean. You never say something that you don't mean. You said it. Therefore, you meant it," he said, punctuating each line by lifting the glass in the air.

Even drunk, his logic came to the forefront. She didn't agree with his conclusion, but the display caused Sara to smile ruefully. It became a concerned frown when he quickly drained the alcohol. Shaking her head, she tried to figure out her next step. Talking was probably a futile effort at this point, but the liquor had an added bonus of opening Grissom up. Maybe it would make him more receptive as well.

"Hey, come on. Let's sit down," Sara said. She grabbed his arm and guided him to the couch. Her head cocked to the side as she watched him. Grissom was drunk, but coherent. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, but not falling down. She wondered how much he'd had to drink, or if alcohol always had this effect on him.

"Guess I should have bought you a beer before I asked you to dinner," she joked lightly, smiling at his puzzled look. "Don't worry about that. Look, I don't remember what I said to you, so I don't know what I was thinking. I guess, maybe, I was still angry. From back at the scene. I was angry that you didn't believe me. That I didn't kill Thorpe on purpose. That I heard another gun. Boy, was I ever wrong about that. I hope you believe me that I didn't mean to kill him."

"No."

"Grissom, I wasn't trying to kill him. Please, believe me about that," Sara said, dropping her eyes abashedly.

"No. You didn't."

"What?" she asked hesitantly. Looking up, she saw Grissom staring at her. Sara had the impression they were carrying on separate conversations. "I didn't what?"

"You didn't kill Thorpe."

"I wish. And, I think you are really wasted."

"The other guy killed him," Grissom said, swirling the last of his drink in his glass before draining it. He stood up so suddenly it startled Sara, who had been sitting there watching him quizzically. Walking back to the breakfast bar, he stopped and started scratching his head. "Where's my bottle?"

"Grissom, there wasn't another guy." She started moving to him before he found where she hid the Scotch, but he turned around. A moment of panic overcame her when she saw the wild look in his eyes. She retreated as he stalked forward. Silently, he walked her back to the couch, roughly pushing her to the seat before retreating.

"You were there, sort of like that. Thorpe was here. The bastard," Grissom said harshly. He took unsteady steps back and held his hand up like a gun. "And back here was the other guy. He shot him. Dead. And if his bullet had gone through, it would have gone through."

Sara sat on the couch, shock washing over her. Was this a drunken fantasy of Grissom's or was he right? It seemed too good to believe, and he was starting to slur his words. She didn't kill Thorpe? She had heard another gun? She was trying to come to terms with the news when she realized he was standing in front of her. The look on his face was terrifying.

"His bullet would have kept going until it hit you. Here," he barked. Her breath froze as he brought his pointed finger in front of her face. "You would have died. And I couldn't do a damn thing."

The sound of the falling glass shattering on the floor snapped Sara's attention back to the present. Grissom collapsed on the couch beside her and a strangled cry escaped from his lips. She twisted on the seat, warily touching his shoulder. He was so reserved normally, she wasn't sure he'd want her to hug him.

"You hate me."

The words were spoken so softly Sara barely heard them, but the emotional charge behind them cut straight to her heart. She blinked slowly, her mouth working as she struggled to find words.

"That's not true. Grissom, please, look at me," she urged softly, pushing on his shoulder so he faced her. Her eyes watered when she saw his haggard expression. "I don't hate you. Okay? Don't ever think that. The opposite is true."

"But you're going away. You're leaving me. You gave up on us."

He climbed off the sofa, shaking his head despondently and headed to the kitchen. Sara realized he probably had other bottles in there, so she jumped up to stop him. Her mind was reeling from his statement. His pain was obvious. Her reluctance gave way, and she slid her arms across his back. “Babe, stop. This isn't your fault. Believe me."

"Why?"

"It isn't about you, okay? I wasn't happy. Don't blame yourself, Grissom. I'm serious. I know you … care. And I feel the same for you. But there was no us for me to give up on."

"Does it count that I wanted there to be?"

Sara watched mesmerized as Grissom turned to her, and his hand reached towards her cheek. It hovered over the flesh tentatively, as if he was afraid of being seared if he touched her.

"I wanted to be with you. More than I can describe. To make love to you. To make you happy. I wanted to know how to do that. To know the things to say or do. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"Grissom," she sighed, her eyes closing as he finally barely brushed his fingertips along her cheek. When they reached the hairline, he traced around her ear and over her neck, pulling her towards him. A shiver ran down her body when his hot breath tickled her ear as he bent his head down.

"I was trying. The best I knew how. I wanted to be the man you deserved," he whispered, his voice deep with passion. "I wanted to be able to give you everything. I didn't know how, but I was trying to figure it out. Tell me that counts for something."

"I … I didn't know," she stammered, vaguely aware that Grissom was moving them back to his couch.

"You do now."

When his arms wrapped around her, Sara's eyes snapped open in shock. She stood in his bear hug stiffly as her mind tried to process everything that was going on. Questions about what had really happened at the shooting conflicted with her heart's reaction to Grissom's statements.

Her body automatically began to relax in his embrace; the warmth of his body and his words reached her on an instinctive level. All the uncertainties and fears of the past week eased from her mind, and she let her arms twine around his body. A soft mew of pleasure escaped when Grissom began to move his lips across the sensitive flesh of her neck.

Concern washed over Sara unexpectedly, and she opened her eyes. This was moving too fast, and Grissom's admissions and actions were alcohol-inspired. If he remembered this, he'd freak out when he sobered up. It was his hand trying to travel under her sweater that finally brought her back to reality.

"Grissom, what do you think you're doing?" Sara asked, giving her head a shake to clear it. Gently, she pushed his hand away.

"I'm trying to be more available," he answered, giving up on her breast and dropping his hand to her rear.

Her mouth opened in surprise as he began kneading the flesh. She blinked several times indignantly, both at his action and the way her body was reacting to it. Suddenly, the absurdity of the situation overtook her other emotions, and Sara began to chuckle. Once the release started, she was unable to stop the laughter. That halted Grissom's advances, and he leaned back to stare at her with a baffled expression.

"Babe," she said softly, rubbing his shoulders tenderly as she fought to stifle her laughter. "You really need to work on your timing."

"I do?" he asked incredulously.

Grissom's response caused her to grin broadly. Sara bobbed her head, unable to speak at first out of fear she'd start to laugh again. After a minute, she patted his arms and tried to pull away. "Yeah. You do. You really do."

He cocked his head and stared at the wall studiously. His facial muscles twitched as he mentally considered her statement. Slowly, Grissom turned back to her. "I'll work on that later," he said.

Sara's fingers dug into his shoulders as both of his hands went to her backside, squeezing and pulling her tightly against his body.

"Don't leave me. I want to do the right thing," he told her, between pressing kisses along her jaw. "I want to do right by you. Do the right things, say the right things, be what you need. Give me a chance. Don't leave me."

She moaned in frustration as Grissom continued his ministrations. Sara leaned into his body, drinking in his scent, savoring the feel of his skin as the tension left her muscles. After all that had happened to her, the thought of finding release in his arms was very tempting.

It was also wrong. She was taking advantage of him. He may have started things, but Grissom was also drunk. Not too drunk, Sara realized. The thin material of his sweatpants did nothing to hide the fact that he was responding to the stimuli.

But he had to get drunk before he was willing to do this.

That realization was enough to settle the matter for Sara. Firmly but gently, she pried herself out of his embrace. He watched her with a hurt puppy dog look in his eyes, and she averted her eyes.

"I'm not that desperate," she said quietly to the floor. Looking up, she tried to give him a kind smile. "Doing dumb things while you're drunk? That's supposed to be my thing. Trust me, Grissom, you don't want to copy me on that."

"I'm not drunk," he said, sitting on the couch with a half-pout.

"Yeah, well, we'll see what you say about that when you sober up."

"I'm trying to do the right thing."

"I know," Sara said, smiling affectionately. On impulse, she bent over and pressed her lips against his softly, fighting the urge to deepen the kiss. "If you were sober, you'd be getting lucky right now."

"I am sober!"

Sara shook her head and held out her hand for him. "Come on, Studly Do-Right. Time for you to go to bed."

Her smile vanished in a huff when he stopped halfway up and grabbed her arm. He pulled her down on the couch, and they landed in a tangle of limbs. "Are you making fun of me?" Grissom asked with a hurt expression.

"No, I'm not."

"Good."

"Come on, let's go. You need to sleep this off," Sara told him, shaking her head when he rested his on her shoulder. "In your bed, Grissom. Alone."

"No."

"Grissom…"

"No. You said you'd wait to see what I said when I was sober."

She laughed softly. "That's not exactly what I said. You need to be in your bed."

"Don't leave me."

Sara was still processing his emotion-packed plea when the soft snoring started. Her head dropped back dramatically , and she rolled her eyes. Her attempts to free herself were short-lived. He effectively had her pinned down. She had limited leverage, and Sara doubted she could get off the couch without sending him flying to the concrete floor or onto the coffee table. Unwilling to take the chance of hurting him, she settled on shifting so she was lying back slightly, holding onto his body as she moved.

A remorseful smile eventually crept over Sara's face. It had been good to finally have Grissom admit the way he felt, but she knew the alcohol was responsible for it. Her fingers ran lightly through his hair, and she took pleasure in the moment. There was something comforting in his weight resting against her body. She expected things to become extremely uncomfortable when he did awaken, but until then she was going to savor all of it.

"You know, I never did get a chance to tell you what I came over to tell you. I hope you don't mind if I use this time to practice. You can be a bit intimidating," she said softly as her fingers ran over his upper back. "Let's see. What would be the best way of starting? 'Grissom. You're a cute drunk.' I don't think you'll find that amusing when you wake up. You are going to be hung-over like hell. You're lucky it's me here instead of Brass. I don't think he'd be putting up with you snoring on him."

She stopped talking when he shifted in his sleep. Sara raised her head and stared at him in annoyance. "I'm warning you, Grissom. You try to resume what you were doing earlier in your dreams, and you are so going to the floor," she growled irritably, lifting his probing hand away from her sweater.

* * *

The shrill ring of a cell phone caused Grissom to groan loudly. It stopped the second his brain registered that the sound was being muffled by flesh. And it was too soft and nice smelling to be his arm. His eyes opening painfully, he lifted his head and met a pair of apprehensive brown eyes. Jumping off the couch, he walked into his bedroom muttering some vague apologies.

Sara sat up, willing herself not to cry. His reaction wasn't completely unexpected, but it was still painful. She eyed the door but the crunching sound under her shoe caused her to look down. The glass Grissom dropped earlier was lying on floor. He was lucky he hadn't cut himself. She knew from recent memory that he wouldn't be in the mood to clean it up.

With a sigh, she disappeared into the kitchen. Finding his broom, she carefully swept up the mess. His voice carried from the bedroom, and pain tainted his words. She grabbed a bottle of water from his fridge and was fishing out some ibuprofen from her purse when he came out. Keeping a calm expression, she walked them to him.

"You can relax. Nothing happened," Sara said after he swallowed some of the water.

"Good. I'd really be embarrassed if I didn't at least get undressed before it was over."

Sara's eyebrows went up her forehead. She'd spent the previous hours thinking of how to talk to him, based on his mood. Off all the ways for him to react, making a joke wasn't one of them. He saw her expression, and shrugged slightly before sinking into his couch.

"What, uh, what exactly do you remember?" she asked curiously.

Grissom closed his eyes, and Sara thought he'd drifted back to sleep until he barked out a humorless laugh. "I remember I was trying to forget everything. Did I tell you?" he asked, opening his eyes to peer at her intently. "Robbins found two bullets. You didn't kill Thorpe."

"You told me."

"Did I also tell you how close you came to dying?"

"Yeah," she answered.

"Did I tell you …" he started to ask, opening his eyes before he finished. The anguish was clear, but it left Sara unsettled. Was he sorry that he told her, or about how she responded? About what had happened, or had almost happened?

"You said a lot of things. And I'm not sure you're ready to talk about it now," Sara said, standing up quickly and grabbing her purse. In truth, she was the one who wasn't ready to talk. Both his personal revelations and those about the crime scene had her rattled. She needed time to regroup.

"Sara, wait."

Her hand froze on the door handle. She turned slowly, and her heart skipped a beat. Grissom's face was a mixture of pain, and she knew only part of it was physical. He'd never been so open with her before, and the intensity was unnerving.

"I wasn't kidding, Grissom. Your timing's off. Go to bed. We can talk later. If you want," she added before escaping into the early evening.

* * *

Sara stood in the entranceway to her apartment building fighting down her anger. It had been nearly a week since Thorpe's last visit there, but shades of fear continued to haunt her. She wondered how long it would take before she was truly free from his terror campaign. Her counselor told her it was normal after a stalking to have lingering concerns, but she found it irritating.

As far as work was concerned, the case was closed. They learned Thorpe's mother used her job with a towing company to get their home addresses. Bobby's analysis of the shell casing Sofia found matched a gun used in a gang-related shooting. Vega's contacts confirmed the Snakebacks had killed Thorpe after his antics brought unwanted attention on the gang's activities.

Her suspension had been lifted, but she'd yet to return to work. Her vacation was still approved, and Sara had put the time to good use. She continued her appointments with the therapist, even though she understood she hadn't killed him. The experience made her realize she had issues that needed to be addressed before they became problems.

Brass had been true to his word, taking her to the shooting range. It had taken all her strength to fire the gun, and her shoots were nowhere near her normal level of performance, but she'd been able to do it. Afterwards, they'd shared an early meal at the diner near the lab, and he'd regaled her with embarrassing mishaps Ecklie suffered when he first arrived in Vegas.

Grissom had called her that first night, and he'd stopped by after shift was over. He looked and sounded like he was still suffering from his hangover, and Sara hadn't pressed him. She fixed him a mug of tea, and he explained what had happened at work. Neither mentioned what happened in his townhouse. That was the last she heard from him.

"Big surprise," she grumbled to herself. It was his modus operandi, part of what made Grissom who he was. She loved that man, but he still vexed her. She let out a long sigh and squared her shoulders. It was safe to go inside, but her posture was tense. Rounding the corner into her hallway, she mumbled, "The bastard isn't here."

That's when she literally ran into Grissom.

They both stepped back in surprise, and Sara quickly noted Grissom's hurt expression. She moved to heal the damage rapidly. "You're not the bastard I was talking about. I mean, you're not a bastard. Shit. Grissom, you scared me."

"Sorry about that," he said, accepting her apology with a faint smile. "You're here."

"I live here," Sara replied, looking at him in confusion. She opened her door and held it open for him after entering. "Why wouldn't I be here?"

"I didn't know when you were leaving for San Francisco. I wanted to talk to you before you left."

"When the shooting happened, I called to let them know I wasn't able to come out. I figured it was a good time to take a few days off, though. Do you need me back at the lab? I can be at work tonight."

"No. Take the time off," Grissom said. He remained standing by the door as she retrieved a drink, declining her offer. His eyes narrowed once she was on the couch. "Did you cancel that interview or just postpone it?"

"Good question. I don't have a real answer."

"Could you expand on that idea?"

Sara shrugged and twisted on the couch so she was facing him. "I was feeling down. About being in Vegas, work. All of it. I was bored. After seeing exciting, I think I'll stick to bored. It's a lot better."

Grissom regarded her closely. His hand came up to rub his beard as he took a seat beside her on the couch. Sara blinked in surprise, but pulled up her legs to give him more room.

"Do you think you'll still be bored when you go back to the lab?"

"I'm not really sure work was the trouble. Not entirely. Don't get me wrong – this break has been nice, even if the reasons for it sucked. But, I, uh, think I ran out of rabbits to chase," Sara said, flashing him an affectionate grin.

Grissom returned the smile briefly. He leaned against the couch, and Sara could see he was debating something internally. When he sat upright, he let out a determined breath. Facing her, he offered a nervous grin before he snaked his arm around her waist.

"You were correct earlier," he said softly, reaching his other hand up to her close her mouth. His fingers stayed there a moment, gently caressing her skin before moving away.

"About what?" she asked in puzzlement.

"When you said I needed to work on my timing. You were right about that. It is off."

"Are you drunk again? 'Cause this is confusing the hell out of me."

Grissom's tongue peeked from his lips playfully. "You were right. My timing is terrible, but until someone invents a form of time travel, I can't go back and act when I should have."

"You are drunk, aren't you?"

"No. I'm not. I wish I were. You're easier to talk to when I am."

"You really know how to lay on the compliments, Grissom," Sara said, but her words were tempered by an amused grin. "Look, it was a stressful time. People say things they don't mean. I know I did the last time you were here. You really aren't a bastard," she added with a wink. "You just act like one on occasion."

"I don't mean to. There's an expression, 'When you find yourself in a hole, it's time to stop digging.'"

"Yeah, I've heard different variations of that."

"I knew the saying, and what it means, but I never realized it applied to me. About how I dealt with you. By the time I did notice I was in a hole, I was in too deep. I couldn't go back. I was stuck."

"All you had to do was talk to me," Sara said softly.

"You know what they say about hindsight," he sighed, giving her a slight shrug. "I didn't know what would happen it I tried digging to the sides. Would it make things worse? The only thing I could do was keep going the same way I had come. Maybe I hoped I'd come out the other side eventually. But all that I ended up doing was tossing up more dirt and burying myself inside that hole. The harder I tried, the worse it became. I ended up completely lost and in the dark."

"You really give a new meaning to talking dirty."

Grissom lifted his head when Sara's fingers ran lightly over his beard. The look in her eyes brought a smile to his face. The thought of facing her again had been frightening to him. He meant what he told her back in his townhouse, but he understood that his presentation had been anything but graceful. The fact he'd been drunk when he finally told her his feelings hadn't helped.

"Are you going to give me some pointers in that area?" Grissom asked, hoping he wasn't rushing.

Sara let out an abashed chortle, and she rolled her eyes before facing him again. "I'm … rusty myself," she admitted.

"Are we okay?" Grissom asked nervously.

"We're getting there."

"How about you?"

"I'm fine," Sara said. "Well, I will be," she corrected at his raised eyebrow. "I guess I'm still a little jumpy when guys run into me in the hallway."

He gave his head a nod of acknowledgement before easing back on the couch. His arm wrapped around Sara, gently pulling her to his body. Grissom smiled contently when she rested her head against his shoulder.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" he asked.

"Yeah. I had an early appointment. I, uh, I'm talking to the PEAP counselor again. I started when I thought I was hearing things."

"You do know it wasn't your fault?"

"That's really easy to say, but it's not so easy to accept. Are you hungry? I'll fix you something," Sara offered.

"It's okay. Maybe later," he said, pulling her back down. "You don't have to change the subject. Tell me if I go where I'm not wanted."

"You're wanted," Sara said, lifting her head to watch him carefully. "I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about everything. I haven't told you everything about when I was growing up."

"Am I that hard to talk to?" he asked curiously.

"Sometimes. It's … more like I was afraid. I already thought you didn't want to be with me, and that was before you knew how screwed up I really am." She frowned momentarily and shrugged. "I guess that was a warning. Now's the time to get out if you want. I won't blame you."

"I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here as long as you'll have me. What about work? Are you going to be satisfied there?"

"We'll see. I'm getting the feeling there's going to be a fresh rabbit to chase."

"Well, you know what bunnies are famous for."

Sara snapped her head off his chest and stared at him in amusement.

"What?" Grissom said innocently. "You said I needed to work on my dirty talk."

"This is going to be interesting," Sara said, chuckling happily as she nestled into his chest.

**The End**


End file.
